


And I Am Whole

by Sineala



Series: Living on Your Breath [2]
Category: Avengers (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Avengers Vol. 3 (1998), Avengers: Red Zone, BDSM, Collars, Comic Book Science, Consensual Kink, Dom Tony Stark, Hand Feeding, Hurt/Comfort, Kneeling, Knifeplay, M/M, Sub Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-07-24 07:51:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7500087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sineala/pseuds/Sineala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year after their captivity, Steve and Tony reclaim the rest of their lives together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And I Am Whole

**Author's Note:**

  * For [phoenixmetaphor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixmetaphor/gifts).



> Happy birthday, phoenixmetaphor! It has been a great deal of fun working with you recently for the last Big Bang and Reverse Bang challenges. So here is the even happier happy ending that the characters weren't quite ready for at the end of the Reverse Bang. It also contains a lot of Red Zone h/c, because everyone likes Red Zone. The Avengers Forever retcons for The Crossing are not in here, mostly because I have read more of The Crossing than I have Avengers Forever.
> 
> This is an epilogue to [Living on Your Breath](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7029745) (which was written for phoenixmetaphor's art [Subjugation](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7029175) for the Cap-IM RBB). I suspect this won't make a lot of sense to anyone who hasn't read that first, but you're welcome to try anyway; there's a fair amount of recapping the previous plot here (including mentions of past mind control and torture). There's no mind control or torture in this story, though, just happy consensual kink.
> 
> Most of the Red Zone section was taken directly from canon. Specifically, everything with Tony & T'Challa and Tony & Scott is a straight-up borrowing, with minimal changes to the dialogue and action, although I have attempted to add more Steve/Tony feels with the narration and with additional Steve/Tony scenes. Because clearly there weren't enough Steve/Tony feels in an arc that has two whole pages devoted to their lips touching.
> 
> Also the A+ Comic Book Science mostly comes straight from Red Zone. Totally not my fault. There is additional A+ Comic Book Science where I totally make stuff up about vibranium. It doesn't make sense. Comics!
> 
> Thanks to Blossomsinthemist for a very thorough beta and Teyke for engineering nerdery help.

Tony remembers.

He comes awake all at once, tangled in the blankets, cold sweat on his skin, and he knows what he was dreaming about, because it's the same nightmares he's been having for a year. They're dreams now, but they used to be real, and that's the worst part.

That's the thing: Tony remembers it all.

As far as mind control goes, he's been one of the Avengers' more frequently susceptible members. He's certainly been mind-controlled for the longest period of time: he spent nearly ten years as Kang the Conqueror's puppet, unwilling and for the most part entirely unaware. But to Tony that atrocity barely makes an impact. In fact, he hardly remembers it. There are the barest broken fragments of memory: bodies lying at his feet, him fighting his younger self, his death in Steve's arms... and almost nothing else. It's a piece of a life, one of his three lives that now fit together in his head in a strange patchwork. It's one of his lives that fades away more and more every day. It's easy to look back and know that wasn't him. Unlike the rest of it.

No, the incident he's never going to forget is the one that happened a year ago.

A whole lot has happened in this year. They came back to life. They put a new team together. They fought the Kree. As Thor had put it, they "had words" with Ultron. Tony's armor came to life and kidnapped him. And they've just beaten back Kang. It's been the usual crop of villains -- and Tony's unfortunate technology mishap -- menacing the planet. Anyone else would remember any of those things very, very well. But for the Avengers, that's just an ordinary week.

The thing that's going to stick with Tony for the rest of his goddamn life is the week the Secret Empire kidnapped him, brainwashed him... and then gave him Steve to torture.

He glances over. In the washed-out light of the pre-dawn sky, Steve is all pale cream and gold, curled up next to him, happily asleep, smiling faintly. The blankets are pulled up just to his hips, enough to make it plain that he's wearing absolutely nothing, here in Tony's bed.

It's been a hell of a year.

And if Tony'd had to guess, anytime before this year, this would have been the one thing he never thought he'd get to have. And then it was the one thing he never thought he'd get to keep.

Steve.

Steve loves him.

Tony can feel his mouth curving in a ridiculous smile as he thinks it, the warmth chasing away the cold fear that's gathered within him. He can hardly believe it, that Steve's still here. After everything. After everything he did to him, he thinks, and then a shard of broken nightmare slices through his conscious mind again, and Steve's curled up on cold concrete instead, bleeding out--

Despite himself, Tony shivers.

Now, of course, the nightmare slides easily into the cracks between his thoughts, permeating everything with terror. He didn't save Steve then. He didn't even save himself. Wanda had been the one who reversed the brainwashing; Tony hadn't been able to stop himself from doing any of the horrific things he'd wanted to do to Steve. If the Avengers hadn't burst in at literally the last possible moment, Steve would have been dead. Tony would have choked Steve to death. He'd have left Steve's body lying lifeless on that concrete floor and it's down to sheer luck that it didn't happen that way. Ten seconds later and it all would have been over.

What if it happens again? What if someone captures them? What if someone takes Steve away and hurts him and Tony can't save him?

They're Avengers. They run into these situations all the time. Tony has already failed once. What if next time he fails again? What if he's not good enough? What if it costs Steve his life?

Steve cracks one blue eye open and flings a sleepy, heavy hand over Tony's chest. He's got him. They've got each other.

"S'okay," Steve mumbles, the way he always says it. "S'just a dream. M'right here. Love you."

Steve drifts back to sleep, and eventually Tony follows, breathing in and out and focusing on the comforting weight of Steve's hand splayed across his chest.

This time, Tony doesn't dream.

* * *

They wake up for real a bit later, when the sun is actually shining through the gaps at the edges of the curtains. These days, Tony's convinced Steve to sleep in a little -- because when you're Avengers co-leaders and you're dating, mornings are more or less the only time you can steal for yourselves. Well, and nights, but lately the Avengers have been awfully busy and they've all been dead on their feet by nightfall. Even Steve has had barely enough energy left to get his boots off before crawling into bed, and sometimes he doesn't even manage that. (Tony has the pictures to prove it.)

Tony's not complaining. He's happy to do what he does. He saves the world. People need him. He's proud to be an Avenger. But he's on call 24/7 and he has to admit that it doesn't leave a lot of time for romance. 

From a purely practical standpoint -- not that anything about this is ruled by practicality -- Steve is probably the best person he could ever have ended up in a relationship with, because they're both willing to drop everything and put the team first. Tony's loved a lot of people, but he thinks no one other than Steve has really understood that. Maybe you have to be an Avenger.

And if there's no time for romance, then there _really_ isn't time for the particular... flavor... of romance that he and Steve have discovered they both enjoy.

A little frisson of shivery feeling, somewhere between desire and delight, uncurls deep within him, spreading out. Now that's yet another thing Tony thought he'd never be able to have. Or, to be more accurate, a thing he thought he'd never let himself have.

Kink. BDSM. Whatever you want to call it. He wants to hurt people. Specifically, he wants to hurt Steve. Tie him up, throw him around, bring him to his knees, command him. It's a power thing, and it's a sex thing -- but it was a power thing first, long before he was aware of the rest of it. He can still remember the furtive thrill, the way everything in him clenched up in excitement, the first time he read one of those cheesy old Cap comics, and there Captain America had been, bound and gagged in glorious four-color panels, and he'd just gone hot and _alive_ all over, his senses sparking bright, and something about it was so perfect, all that strength contained. And he'd known, too, that there was something wrong about this, that he shouldn't want to see his hero hurt and crying out.

He hadn't known, then, that there was anyone like him. He'd been a kid. Hitting people was bad. Wasn't that one of the first things everyone learned? Hurting people was bad. There was something uniquely wrong with him, some awful dark flaw. And then puberty had slammed into him with a vengeance and he'd figured out some other ways the appreciation of power could go. And, just as fiercely, he'd shoved it all back down, locked it away, hidden it.

And then... well, then there'd been Steve, Steve who loved him back, and it was as if a switch had been flipped, a long-dormant circuit powered on, and all he could think about was everything he'd sworn never to do. Everything he'd meant to hide.

And then came the Secret Empire and, well -- he never got to hide anything, did he? His entire psyche, everything he'd always wanted, had been ripped out of him, exposed, put on display. Because when it came down to it, what he'd always wanted was to put on some leather and fishnets and shove Captain America around. He'd gotten everything he'd ever wanted, and -- thanks to the mind control -- he hadn't cared that Steve hadn't wanted it.

Except -- and this was the most astonishing part -- Steve did, before all this. Steve does. Steve still does. Steve wants exactly what he wants. With him.

It wasn't wrong, Steve had said, and by God, it's hard to believe something's wrong when Steve's looking at you like it's your duty as an American to have all the kinky sex you've ever wanted. Ideally, with Steve. Tony's pretty sure Steve knows what the Cap voice does to him, and that he has no qualms about using it.

Then they'd actually tried it, and all of Tony's qualms had evaporated. It was everything Tony had wanted, and Steve had wanted it too, and Steve had _loved it_. It was like nothing Tony had ever experienced. It had been sex, but it had been so much more than sex that there weren't even words for what it was, for the amazing trip, the rush of power, better than flying or drinking or anything. He'd looked down at Steve, blissed-out and bruised and smiling soft and easy, and he'd known that Steve trusted him more than anyone in the world. He'd known that Steve loved him.

It sickens him now, when he thinks back on what he did to Steve while mind-controlled, when he thinks about how he bent him to his will, how he beat him, how he literally held him down and tortured him. But Steve forgave him. Steve loves him. And they've done almost everything over again, and they've done it with Steve's full and enthusiastic consent. So he has new memories. Better ones. He can look at a whip and remember a really, really good night and not a week-long nightmare.

So the past year, the year they've spent together has been... amazing. Revelatory, really. He's tried a lot of things and loved almost all of them -- and even the things that haven't done it for him, Steve has been really into, which is almost better, in some way, than liking them himself. He's learned a lot about himself. A lot about both of them.

They've taken back what the Secret Empire did to them. They've made it theirs.

They don't always do the same thing every time they play. Some days Steve likes it hard. He likes restraints he can fight against, and though they haven't acquired purpose-made cuffs, Tony's gotten good at rope. Steve likes to be tied up and beaten, bruised, wounded until he can feel it, until the pain outpaces the speed of his serum-enhanced healing and he's gasping and smiling and crying out in pain and pleasure mingled together. It's... beyond beautiful.

The dynamic shifts, too. They'd started out with Steve telling him how to do this, because Steve's had more experience, and Tony admits that there's a certain neat simplicity to that, to just doing what Steve wants, doing it to him exactly the way he tells him to. Steve told him, afterwards, that this kind of thing was usually called "topping from the bottom," and the abashed apology in his downcast eyes suggested that it wasn't quite a compliment when everyone else said it. Tony thinks that everyone else can fuck off. He's the one sleeping with Steve, and if sometimes Steve wants to be the one to tell him exactly where and how hard to hit him and with what -- well, that works for Tony. He doesn't always need to be the tactician, so to speak. It's apparently as true in bed as it is on the field.

And then there's the other aspect to Steve's submission: the subspace.

To be honest, it had been a little frightening the first time he'd seen it. Amazing, but terrifying, because it was Steve in a way Steve wasn't; it was what lived at his heart, underneath everything else. Steve had just smiled up at him, soft and sweet and slow, drifting in his own world, compliant and utterly trusting.

With Steve, the temptation is to define him always in terms of resistance. In terms of defiance. Ask anyone what Steve's like -- or what Captain America is like, for that matter -- and anyone who knows him will say that he's stubborn as hell. He knows who he is, he knows what he believes in, and he'll stand up and fight for it as long as there's breath in his body. It's almost impossible to imagine a Steve Rogers who gives in. Who doesn't fight.

Tony should know. When the Secret Empire had them, he tried to put him there. He tried to force him down. And even he couldn't break Steve. The nightmare from last night starts to slither into his conscious thoughts, but now that he's awake in the daylight it's easier to push it back. He's not thinking about breaking Steve. Steve doesn't break.

But it turns out that Steve will go down willingly. He'll give in. He won't fight. He'll surrender. Out of love. Tony hadn't even known it was possible until he'd seen it.

It's one of the most humbling things Tony's ever experienced: Steve, kneeling at his feet, putting himself completely in Tony's hands and trusting Tony to treat him right. It's an honor. It's breathtaking.

It's also one of the things that they really, _really_ do not have a lot of time for. Unfortunately.

The thing about being an Avenger is that the superhero lifestyle isn't exactly compatible with luxurious weekend getaways where Tony has hours to take Steve apart and keep him down -- and then, just as carefully, put him back together. No, they have half a dozen roommates, they have almost no privacy, and given five minutes' worth of notice they have to be armed and armored and out the door, ready to fight. It's hard to want to experiment with altered psychological states under those conditions.

But, goddammit, their anniversary is in two weeks and all alien invasions will just have to take a rain check, because Tony is going to do something nice for Steve, and that's final.

And that-- well, that puts him in mind of what he actually wants to get Steve, for their anniversary. His mind lights up with a variety of associations. Half of them are pleasant, and as for the other half -- they used to be.

It's one of the few things they haven't yet reclaimed from the Secret Empire.

His face must change, because Steve rolls over and pushes himself up on one elbow. He's smiling -- he's smiling a lot at Tony, these days -- but his brow is furrowed in concern.

"Tony?" Steve asks. "You all right?"

Tony smiles back. "Fine. Just thinking. You know me."

Steve reaches out and brushes the hair away from Tony's face. "I definitely do. You thinking about anything in particular?"

He should ask. He's got to ask. He sure as hell isn't going to spring it on Steve without asking, and if Steve says yes, he's going to want time to prepare. So he needs to ask. He can do this.

Tony thinks that over the past year they have at least learned how to communicate better than ever. Though, considering where they started, it wouldn't have been hard. He has to say something, and he's learned enough to know that he can't just ignore that.

His throat is tight, and he swallows hard. But he says it. "Just thinking that our anniversary is coming up."

"And you make _that_ face?" Steve's fingers stroke gently over his hairline. "It's all right, Tony. I mean, you know me, too -- it's not like you need to pull out all the stops. We can just have a nice dinner out. Or even a quiet night at home. There's no need to twist yourself into knots planning something elaborate. I'll like anything as long as you're there with me."

It's sweet of Steve to want to reassure him -- because of course Steve always does -- but Steve's clearly not going to hit on the actual source of his anxiety without a push in the right direction.

"No, it's not that," Tony tells him, and Steve frowns. "It's just that there was something I was thinking about getting you. And I know it's not much of a surprise this way, but I wanted to make sure it was something you wanted. Something you still want." He thinks he's starting to babble.

Starting to relax, Steve smiles. "Like I said, Tony, I'm sure I'll like anything you--"

"A collar."

Tony blurts out the words, and Steve stops dead mid-sentence, his mouth still half-open. Is that a good sign? That can't be a good sign.

Oh, Tony knows that Steve remembers collars. They both do. Tony and Steve and collars, they have... a history. Tony remembers the idea occurring to him, in the skewed, broken version of his mind, as he was ordering the Secret Empire's various underlings to help outfit his new lab space and playroom. Of course Steve would hate it if he put a collar on him, he'd told himself, and he'd gloried in the hatred and fear he'd imagined would be on Steve's face. Of course Captain America would despise anything with the faintest hint of ownership. He remembers thinking that that would make it even more perfect. Yes, he'd told one of the minions. Make sure there's a collar.

He's never going to forget Steve's face when he put the collar on him. Of everything Tony had done to him, he thinks that might have been what hit Steve the hardest. He'd gone pale and cold, like he'd been about to be sick, and his expression had twisted up with the most horrible, wretched sadness. He'd looked so... bleak. And he'd sat there, passive and still, while Tony buckled it around his neck. He hadn't even tried to fight.

It had made Tony so goddamn happy.

At the time, Tony'd thought it had meant he was winning. That Steve really, truly hated this, just as Tony had suspected. He'd never once thought that Steve couldn't stand it because it had been something he'd dreamed of having.

If he'd known to look, then, there would have been hints. There had been hints. He'd just missed them. He'd thought Steve would take the collar off, the first chance he got. He'd been expecting it. He remembers laying out his plans for the next day when he woke up in the artificial morning of the Secret Empire's underground lair. Steve would have taken the collar off; since Tony had left the cuffs off him overnight, Steve definitely would have been able to. No reason he wouldn't have done it. So Tony would head back down to Steve's cell, and he'd get the padlock out of his desk drawer, and he'd give Steve some awful sneering speech about how he couldn't fight this. And then he'd chain Steve to the wall again, fasten the collar around his neck again, and this time he'd lock it shut. _There's no getting out of that_ , he'd have told him. _You're mine._

But what had really happened was that he'd gone downstairs the next morning and found Steve in the cell, collar still buckled around his neck, with no sign that he'd even thought about removing it.

Tony had been even happier, then. It had meant that Steve had been one step closer to breaking. And maybe that had even been true. But the half he didn't know about had been true, too: Steve had kept the collar on because he'd always wanted it.

The subject came up exactly once, afterward; they'd confirmed, when talking about what Steve was into, that Steve had wanted it.

Tony's done a bit of reading on the subject, lately. Collars mean different things to different people, with varying degrees of seriousness. A spectrum of commitment. For some people it's pure fashion, part of a costume. Some people wear them for a night, or for the length of a scene, to mark their role. And for some people, it's pretty damn close to a marriage proposal.

He doesn't need to ask Steve to know which group he's in.

As Tony lies here and Steve looks more and more astonished, Tony is uncomfortably aware of the fact that they've only talked about it once. Steve never brought it up again. Maybe he doesn't want a collar anymore. Maybe he doesn't want one _from Tony_.

And then Steve smiles wide, like it's his birthday and Christmas and they've stopped Thanos from destroying the universe all in one day. "You'd give me _your collar_?" he breathes, and his voice is small and tentative, tremulous with excitement, as if this is too wonderful to be real.

Well, that answers that.

Tony can feel himself smiling back. "You'd like that?" His own voice startles him with its softness.

Steve's hand comes up to his neck, then, and he's -- fuck -- he's touching his throat, rubbing two fingers back and forth, like he's imagining where the collar would sit, how it would feel. Tony doesn't think he even knows he's doing it, and he certainly doesn't know how much of a turn-on it is. He never does. Steve's not entirely oblivious to the effect he has on everyone, on Tony -- he can't possibly be -- but he sure walks through the world like he doesn't know how amazing he is, in any possible aspect. For anyone else, the humility couldn't possibly have been real, but... he's Steve.

"Yeah," Steve says. "I would. I really would." His eyes shine.

Tony bites his lip, a sudden spark of pain, a misfire. His artificial heart pounds. "It's not too...?"

He doesn't know whether he wants to say _too much_ or _too soon_. He wants Steve to tell him that it's okay, that they can have this, that it doesn't matter what some nightmare version of Tony's subconscious did to him a year ago, that Tony isn't presuming too much from their relationship. Tony's always the one who falls harder. That's how it works. That's how it's always worked. And with Steve, Tony had fallen even before he'd met him. Steve can't want this. Steve hadn't wanted this. He says yes but he can't mean it, can he?

Oh, God, he said it. He really said it. What was he thinking?

Steve sets his hand on Tony's chest, thumb and index finger bracketing the charging port implanted in Tony's newly-ruined sternum. There's a web of scars spreading out from Tony's mechanical heart. Since the Sentient Armor happened, Steve's never once looked at Tony like this in any way bothers him, although anyone else might have. Tony thinks Steve would love him no matter what he looked like. The thought is astonishing. Frightening. He can't frighten Steve away. That's what Steve would tell him, but Tony knows they got close to it, once. That week with the Secret Empire, again.

Steve's thumb rubs over one of the ridged scars like he can smooth it away with a touch; Tony doesn't have a lot of sensation on the worst of the scars but he can feel the heat and pressure of Steve's skin.

"Shh," Steve murmurs, because somehow he has an unerring sense for when Tony's edging toward a freakout. Tony's too practiced at thinking in circles. Twisting himself up. "It's good, Tony, okay? It's really good. The best. I'd-- I'd be honored to wear your collar."

"Yeah? You'd really like that?"

He's repeating himself. He must sound ridiculous. He's not the one with the right to be afraid of this.

"Yeah." Steve licks his lips. "I think you must know how much it means to me. What it means to me."

"It's a symbol," Tony ventures, and Steve nods. "It shows that you... belong to me."

The phrase is loaded, charged: a gun, a powered repulsor. They both know that the last time Tony did this, it was a very different kind of belonging.

Steve shudders, like he's taken a punch, but he's smiling. "I want that," he says, soft and fierce. "I want to be yours."

It feels like a punch when Steve says it, too, and for an instant Tony is breathless. The phrase is heavy, heady, full of power. It's erotic -- or rather, it's not quite erotic, but it's kin to it, in that space in Tony's body and mind where all of his desires live. It doesn't matter if it's a turn-on; it just matters that he wants it.

"You'll wear my collar," Tony says, half-imagining it already, "and we'll know."

Steve pauses. "This is you," Steve says, his voice serious. "This is you, really you, and this is me and it's okay because it's us. I want to belong to you."

"Okay," Tony says. He does have one logistical question. "Any requests as to materials? Style?" 

Steve smiles. "Leather would be nice. I'm always a fan of the classics."

Tony chuckles. "I knew _that_ , old man."

"And I'm sure any style you pick will be wonderful." Steve's eyes are a little too bright, again. "Really, Tony. Just... the idea of having it..."

Oh, he knows.

There's one more question. He takes a shaky breath. "Color?"

He got this far, but he's not brave enough to ask the rest of it, not directly. He doesn't even know if Steve remembers. It was an idle question in the middle of a nightmare. Maybe Steve's tried not to think about it. But Tony -- even when he was brainwashed -- had always known what he'd wanted. And he'd told Steve so, once.

He's pictured Steve in red and gold. _His_.

If Steve doesn't want that, anymore -- if Steve ever wanted it -- well, that's okay. Tony can deal. He tamps down on the pre-emptive pang of disappointment. It will still be a collar, a collar he gave Steve, and it doesn't have to be his own colors for it to count. Probably silly of him, anyway. Too narcissistic. Too arrogant.

Steve's eyes go wide.

"Oh, Tony," he says, like he knows exactly what's Tony's thinking. He's a very good guesser. He's staring at Tony like this, out of all of it, is too good to be true. "Please," he says, and that's not really an answer but Tony knows what he means. "Please, yes, yours, your colors, please."

Steve's starting to repeat himself, eager and affirmative in the way Tony has come to associate with a lot of Steve's submission.

"Okay," Tony says, reaching out and cupping Steve's face. "Red and gold. You got it."

Steve smiles, wide and ecstatic, eyes gone dark. "Thank you," he says. "Thank you, thank you, thank you--"

And then he's kissing Tony. Tony glances over at the clock, gets a blurred glimpse of the numbers, and decides he can make time for this. Then Steve laughs and rolls them both over and Tony's not thinking about anything else for a while.

* * *

Tony's fifteen minutes late to his meeting with the Secretary of Defense. Ten of those minutes are Steve, and five are trying to find concealer for the visible hickeys.

It's worth it. (And not just because Tony can't stand Dell Rusk.)

He sits at the far end of the table as the thoroughly unpleasant Rusk drones on about renewing the necessary governmental clearances for the Avengers, about his thoughts on Wakanda -- of all places -- and Tony sighs and thinks about Steve's mouth and thinks _I left Captain America naked in my bed for this, you asshole_ and smiles politely and nods and says all the right things.

The things he does for the world.

Rusk is talking about the CDC's research budget now -- odd, when they're not even a DoD agency -- and Tony just keeps smiling. He has no idea why Rusk even brought it up. He hates this guy.

Tony smiles and nods again and remembers the taste of Steve's lips.

* * *

Even running late, it must be Tony's lucky day, because he manages to fit in some workshop time before dinner. And it's not armor time. This is Steve time. Steve said yes. So it's collar time.

He could buy a collar. Of course he could.

He could also make one, which is about ten thousand times more meaningful. So, yeah, guess which one he's going with.

He's never made a collar before, but he's actually got a fair amount of leatherworking experience. None of it is that recent, but back when the Avengers had started he was the one patching up and redesigning uniforms, more often than not, and in those days Steve's uniform was almost all leather. (These days it's leather and some very, very sturdy para-aramid fabrics; the scale mail is mostly for show.)

So this has to be easier than that. Cut a strip or two of leather, get some nice soft lambskin lining, stitch everything together, bevel the edges, add the hardware, fasten it all together. He's pretty sure he's still got the tools somewhere around here.

Tony opens his favorite CAD program, sits back, and he grins at the blank file, just waiting for him. Ah, yes, the hardware. The metal findings. That's going to be the best part. Sure, he could just go buy D-rings and rivets and a buckle. But for this project he has very... particular... requirements. And if there's one thing Tony is good at, it's metalwork. He has the armor to prove it.

He's going to cast the findings with his own two hands. Steve deserves that much. Steve deserves everything good he can give him. And no one else -- no one else Steve was with, no one else at all in the world -- would give Steve this, a collar made just for him, personally, with all the care and love Tony can put into it.

It feels like the old days, in a way. He used to stay up late into the night making the tiniest tweaks to Steve's uniform. New armoring, a new cut of fabric or leather, magnetic shield recall. This, what he's doing, feels like that, feels like the heart of it, the same way that watching Steve drop wide-eyed into subspace is a truth deeper than the rest of him.

He imagines how happy Steve will be. He imagines Steve on his knees, smiling up at him.

Tony starts sketching out the curve of a D-ring, already pondering what he'll make the mold out of, and he realizes he's smiling.

Maybe he's good enough for Steve after all.

* * *

Tony wanted a nice quiet couple of weeks.

What Tony actually gets is a deadly airborne plague in the skies over Mount Rushmore.

Steve assembles the Avengers, as usual, and the team gathers in the briefing room: the two of them, and then Vision, Scott, Carol, Wanda, Jen, and Jack. Steve looks at everyone in turn, his gaze roving around the room.

"This is the situation," Steve says. "There's a red cloud in South Dakota, centered over Mount Rushmore. It's currently fifty miles in diameter, expanding at fifty feet per minute. It's some kind of airborne disease, and anyone who breathes it in is dying. There are response teams on the way from FEMA, SHIELD, and the CDC. We've been asked to help with containment and evacuation. So we're heading out. Wheels up in five minutes. Warbird, you're piloting."

Tony glances at the team. About half the Avengers have super-strength; that ought to be useful. And Vision, Jen, and Jack ought to have some kind of at least partial immunity or -- in Vision's case -- a complete lack of susceptibility. That will be good. Carol and Steve both know how to talk to the military, who are probably already on-site. And Wanda's powers are stronger than ever before; if anyone can contain an entire airborne contagion, it's her.

And then Steve looks at Tony. "Iron Man, I want you to stay behind for this one."

Tony's sorry he's not yet armored up; he has to work harder at controlling his expression. He knows Steve's the team leader again and he's only the deputy leader, but that doesn't give Steve the right to scratch him. Does he think Tony's not up to this? He opens his mouth--

"Tony," Steve says, and his voice is a little softer. "It's not that I don't want you with us, believe me. It's that I need you here. You're the closest thing we have to a biologist right now. You're the resident genius. And you have contacts in the government. I want you working on this. The virus. If it even is a virus. Talk to the CDC. Give them whatever help they need. Try to figure something out. We can handle the heavy lifting without you. I need you to be Tony Stark and not Iron Man. None of us can do what you do."

It's a whole lot like what Steve had told him in the midst of the Kang fight -- that he'd needed Tony off the front lines because, as he'd said, _we need Tony Stark's brains, not Iron Man's strength_ \-- and Tony breathes in and out and tries to let it go. All right. It stings a little, not to be with the team, but he can do this. He needs to be here, where he can make a difference.

"Okay, Cap," he says. "Will do. Keep me posted."

"We don't know the source yet," Steve says. "But if we don't get out there soon, it's going to get a whole lot worse." He stands up and hooks his shield onto his back. "All right, Avengers, let's move."

The team begins to filter out of the briefing room, most of them moving at the usual fast jog that will take them out and up the stairs to the Quinjet hangar.

Tony reaches out and catches Steve's arm as he passes by.

"Hey," Tony says. "Stay safe out there, all right?"

Steve smiles and he lifts his hand to brush the edge of Tony's beard with one gloved thumb. "Same goes for you," he says. "I'll be in touch."

And then he drops his hand and is gone.

Tony looks at the empty doorway for a few seconds and sighs. He's not going to worry about Steve. He isn't. Steve's going to be fine. He sighs again and shakes his head.

Okay, Avenger. Time to get to work.

* * *

Tony armors up and heads out to one of the CDC labs, talking as fast as he can and flashing his Avengers creds and trying to look like someone who has something to contribute. The team hasn't called in specifically, but there's chatter here and there on the open comm line. They're rescuing the survivors. Okay. Good.

The news about the disease, of course, isn't good.

"We think we're dealing with an abnormally fast necrotizing fasciitis," the CDC researcher, Dr. Foster, says. He looks up from the microscope and goes on to clarify. "More commonly known as flesh-eating bacteria."

Tony imagines thousands of civilians, caught unaware, bleeding and dying. He imagines Steve, his skin torn away. He swallows hard and is glad no one can see him behind the mask. Steve's okay. The team's okay. They're going to contain this. The CDC are going to cure this. They can handle it.

Flesh-eating bacteria don't spread like this, the scientist says. And they're not this quick. They had to be engineered. This was bioterrorism. Someone targeted Mount Rushmore. They wanted to make a statement.

Tony _hates_ it when they want to take out civilians. He signed up for this. Let the supervillains come to him. No one else should have to die. (He tries not to remember that he used to build weapons.)

"Any idea who's responsible, Iron Man?"

"Targeting a monument like Mount Rushmore?" Tony gives a huge, helpless shrug. "There's only a few terrorist groups that are capable of something like this. Hydra. AIM." He doesn't mention that AIM is generally of the _can't find their own ass if you give them a GPS_ level of incompetence. "We already have Avengers on scene. So how can we help here, Dr. Foster?"

He flicks back to the comm feeds. The team is still live and in the field. He breathes out. So far, so good.

"Everyone's working to find a way to neutralize this cloud before it spreads," Foster says, "but for now... you're one of the richest men in the world, Mr. Stark. Any additional funds the CDC could get, to buy more antibiotic cocktails and outside testing, would be invaluable."

Well, of course he can do that. It's only money. Hey, Tony thinks, amused despite himself, Steve was right; it's a problem he can solve. But surely the CDC should have funding? He frowns. Rusk had been saying something about the CDC last week, but he'll be damned if he can remember what it was.

"The boys in Washington are moving slow," Foster says, in answer to the question Tony didn't ask. "I don't know why our requests aren't being treated with more urgency, but--"

Tony interrupts him. "I'm sure we can make an arrangement."

"We can do more than give them money."

The imperious drawl comes from T'Challa, who is behind them, perched on a lab bench. His masked eyes gleam golden, and his claws have the familiar shine of vibranium.

T'Challa. Tony has no idea what's up with him. He's oddly snappish -- and for him, that's saying a lot -- testing every ounce of Tony's patience. He has no idea what's rubbing T'Challa the wrong way, but clearly something is.

Whatever. They can work together. Tony can be the bigger man. If T'Challa wants to lend Wakandan scientific expertise, Tony will take it. He's not about to be petty when lives are at stake.

( _Steve's face, bleeding as the flesh sloughs away_. Tony shakes his head and tries to clear it. It's not going to happen.)

Tony clears his throat. "You have something to add, Panther?"

"There have been several cases of necrotizing fasciitis in Wakanda. Our version of the CDC has been developing an enzyme that kills group A streptococci on contact. We haven't quite perfected it yet--"

Foster is practically aghast. "Why in God's name hasn't your country shared that kind of information?"

"Because that's not the Black Panther's way." Tony can't resist being a little snide, but also Wakanda is, historically, incredibly isolationist. It's a wonder T'Challa is even here.

"And when has Stark Enterprises opened all of their doors for the betterment of mankind?" T'Challa shoots back, and, okay, maybe Tony deserved that one. "When has the United States? Every institution has its secrets. But in a time of emergency, Wakanda's are always available. To anyone that needs them."

Oh, those are pretty words, but that's hardly a universal truth about Wakanda; they haven't shared this much before, ever, and Tony doesn't see where T'Challa gets off saying this like it makes it all better. And all this talk about secrecy is awfully rich coming from a guy who never trusted the team when he joined them.

Tony opens his mouth to reply, but he's interrupted by the arrival of a new group of visitors, and he turns and stares. Secretary Rusk is in the lead, flanked by Henry Gyrich -- of course -- and two suits, who loom menacingly behind them. That's not good.

"You will leave these premises immediately," Rusk says. "The Avengers have no business here." While Tony's gaping behind the mask, Rusk turns and levels a finger at Gyrich. "As their UN liaison, Mr. Gyrich, you are required to inform me if your team needs access. You failed to do so."

What the hell? Tony trusts Gyrich about as far as he can throw him -- okay, he can throw pretty far in the suit, so definitely not even that far -- but putting up with him is a necessary evil for the clearances the Avengers need to keep operating on any scale larger than foiling bank robberies by the Wrecking Crew. They put up with him, and he gets them access. He cuts through all the red tape. He had one goddamn job, and he didn't do it.

"I told you," Gyrich insists, wide-eyed, and he doesn't actually look like he's lying. It's difficult to imagine him as sincere, but maybe he actually is. This time. "We tried to notify your office but--"

Tony cuts in. "And as the Secretary of Defense, Mr. Rusk, you realize the seriousness of this--"

Rusk snaps at him before he can finish. "You are no longer sponsored by the United States and are therefore no longer guaranteed access to any of our facilities."

This is... this is fucked up, that's what it is. There's no time to act like this. They need a cure. People are dying.

(The Avengers could be dying.)

"With all due respect," Tony says, through gritted teeth, "protocol is hardly a priority right now, is it?"

"People are dying, Mr. Secretary." T'Challa echoes Tony's thoughts.

It's like he doesn't want them to get anywhere. Why the hell would he be stonewalling them? Dr. Foster just told them the CDC wasn't getting enough funding for this. Is that Rusk's fault, too?

It doesn't make any sense. Why in the world would the _Secretary of Defense_ not want them to attempt to mitigate a bioterrorism attack? Hell, Rusk should be asking the Avengers to profile the likely suspects.

"Escort Iron Man and the Black Panther outside," Rusk says. He practically sneers. "America can take care of its own problems."

Technically, Tony thinks, T'Challa's not subject to this; he's not American. And therefore, he is going to be extremely unimpressed with Rusk throwing his weight around.

The two suits step forward. They're baseline humans. This could be unfortunate. This could also be an international incident, if T'Challa decides to make it one.

T'Challa splays a hand on Tony's chest to hold him back, and he likewise steps forward. "Calling the kettle black? Enough foolishness."

And then he leaps. He slams the men's heads together, and they're down.

The entire room is silent.

T'Challa turns to Rusk. "We'll let ourselves out." And he stalks off. "The enzyme files will be available for download momentarily, Dr. Foster," he calls over his shoulder. "I apologize for the interruption."

Well, Tony thinks, this is a mess.

As he follows T'Challa out, he flicks through the team comm listing. All identicards are active.

Steve's okay. Someone would have told him if he weren't.

Steve can take care of himself. He's going to be fine.

* * *

They're standing on the roof of the CDC lab and Tony kicks idly at the concrete with the toe of his boot. "Rusk's a grade-A jerk, Panther," he begins, and T'Challa isn't even facing him, "but why antagonize him? You're going to be lucky if they don't bring assault charges against you."

"They can't." T'Challa says it like it's a simple fact.

"Why not?"

"I'm a diplomat."

Tony tries to whistle in admiration but he thinks the suit filters cut out most of the high frequencies. "Nice."

"I use everything to my advantage, Stark. Whether anyone agrees with me or not, you have to admit I come through."

While Tony's trying to parse what that means, T'Challa turns around and holds out his hand. A small vial, filled with dark, viscous blood, is pinned between his thumb and forefinger.

"One of the blood samples they were analyzing," he says, unnecessarily. "I'll send it to Wakanda. See what my scientists can learn from--"

Oh, no, no, no. Not this time. Tony swipes the vial out of T'Challa's grasp.

"I'll take care of the second opinion, Panther," he says. "The Avengers can't let this fall into the wrong hands. Can we?"

He kicks the bootjets on and rises into the sky without even waiting for T'Challa's reply. It's not the most mature thing he's ever done, but, well, it's been a day.

* * *

As Tony's flying back to Stark Enterprises with the blood sample, the comm crackles to life.

"Iron Man," Steve says, and Tony nearly sighs in relief. "How's it going on your end? You didn't check in."

"Could be better," Tony says. "Could be worse. Looks like you've got flesh-eating bacteria."

"Yeah, I figured that one out on my own," Steve says grimly.

Tony tries not to picture Steve and the Avengers surrounded by hundreds of bodies. Thousands of bodies. He feels more than a little sick.

"So I'm donating some funds," Tony tells him, trying to segue to a less morbid area of the topic, "and T'Challa's donating some information, and we were about to get started, but then Secretary Rusk, if you can believe this, came in with Henry Gyrich and kicked us out of the CDC. Rusk said he was revoking the Avengers' governmental affiliation."

"He can't-- can he actually do that?"

Tony shrugs, even though Steve can't see him. "That asshole can say whatever he likes and we can sort it out after we save the goddamn country. I'm not worried about it. You keep doing what you're doing. T'Challa borrowed a blood sample for us, so I'm heading home to start working with it. T'Challa said Wakanda has some kind of enzyme, a potential cure."

"Good, good." Tony can hear the relief in Steve's voice.

"So how's it going with you?" Tony asks.

Steve sighs. "Death. Panic. A lot of panic. It's rough. We're doing what we can to keep everyone calm and safe, keep the infected as comfortable as they can be. But it's not-- it's really not a pretty way to go."

Tony feels the sudden, desperate urge to gather Steve up and hold him. He's at least a thousand miles away.

"I wish I were there with you," Tony says. "I know what I'm doing is important, but I wish I were doing something out there, on the ground, not just ferrying samples and watching the real scientists work." _I wish I were at your side._

He knows he's useful here. Out there he'd be just like anyone else in a hazmat suit. But that doesn't stop him from wishing he were there.

"I know," Steve says. He sounds exhausted, but there's a bit of warmth in his voice. "I miss you too." He clears his throat. "Anyway. I wanted to let you know that we're suiting up and heading out to locate the source of the contagion. We're thinking there will be communications interference, so you might not hear from us soon."

Tony banks down through a cloud, and the landscape spreads out green and verdant below him. There's no sign of any deadly plague whatsoever. He's so far away from the hell that the rest of the team is living through. "And the team's okay? You're okay?"

"As well as can be expected."

"All right," Tony says, even though that's not the best answer he could have heard from Steve. "You hang in there. I'll-- I can take you out to dinner next week, okay? For our anniversary. You just think about that."

He thinks maybe Steve is smiling. "Looking forward to it. But now I have to go. Captain America out."

The comm line goes silent.

They're okay, Tony tells himself. They've got this.

* * *

Tony converts a whole floor of Stark Tower into a research center. It's not like he's doing anything more important with the space. He paces the cavernous open floor, fiddling with the security pass on the lab coat over his suit jacket as he watches his people bent over their computers. The report is essentially what the CDC said: necrotizing fasciitis with similarities to group A strep. An enzyme could work, if they had one.

And then all the computers light up. A message from Wakanda.

T'Challa's sent them all the data he talked about at the CDC. Including their enzyme research. 

Well, this is promising.

And then Tony's watch -- the one he outfitted with Avengers comm features -- beeps. Everything within Tony tightens up as his body tries to ready itself for a battle he's not joining.

"--think I got it," Scott's voice says. There's a hell of a lot of static on the line. Steve had said to expect interference. "Hello? Iron Man?"

"Scott?"

"Get to a terminal and hook up," Scott says. "Make it quick."

Down the line, Scott and Jack are arguing about how much time Jack has before he needs to get into containment, into the Zero Room at the mansion. Damn, there's that to deal with too. Tony nearly forgot.

"Scott?" Tony asks as he logs in. "Where are you?"

"You won't believe this," Scott says. "Traced the source of the Red Zone to a US bioweapons lab, built underneath Mount Rushmore." He cuts out for a second. "We don't know who broke this invisible killer out yet, but we know who made it. I'm sending the data now."

The cursor on Tony's screen blinks a few times, green on black, and then the screen flashes a file-transfer request. Tony types yes.

"I trust we're--" Scott says, and then the connection fuzzes out again-- "want to keep this quiet."

"For now," Tony says, and he starts scrolling. There's -- fuck -- there's a lot of data here, and Tony is very, very aware that they're working against the clock. They need a cure now, or more people die.

"Search for keyword Bloodwash," Scott says.

Tony types it in, and the screen fills with information Tony really, really wishes didn't exist. His stomach lurches.

"My God," he says. He can't even process it at first, the sheer horror of everything all together.

The bacteria are bioengineered, all right -- necrotizing fasciitis, deliberately designed to be twenty times as fast as normal. And, what's worse, the people who had made it hadn't finished the design. This was meant to be targeted.

"They wanted it to kill all non-whites," Tony says, numbly. There are tables. Projected statistics. How many of their own people should die from it. Someone -- some _monster_ \-- had wanted this.

_There's some good old-fashioned eugenics for you_ , he thinks. He's going to be sick.

His best guess for the entity responsible has just narrowed down to Hydra, or near enough to Hydra as makes no difference. But -- Tony scrolls frantically through the file, looking for names, looking for a chain of command -- there's nothing Hydra in here. No skulls, no tentacles.

There's just Dell Rusk's name, over and over again, signing off on this.

The United States government did this.

He supposes he shouldn't be surprised, he thinks, as he tastes bile in the back of his throat. He knows he likes to think of science as better than that. Untainted. Far removed from Tuskegee, from the other Rebirth experiments that transformed Isaiah Bradley. But they really weren't that long ago, were they?

"Says they could never quite crack it," Scott continues. "Essentially we're all the same -- as if they needed dozens of America's top-level scientists to tell them that. Meaning it kills everyone." On the video transmission, Scott's pixelated face is grim. "One more bit of bad news. It says there's no cure."

Then the line goes dead.

"Scott?" Tony tries, even though he knows Scott can't hear him.

No cure. Hundreds, thousands -- who knows how many people? -- dying. No cure. And the Avengers are right there in the thick of it, and the hours are ticking down until Jack has to return to the Zero Room or the situation is going to get literally explosive, and, God, _Steve_ \--

"He's gone," says a voice from behind him. T'Challa.

Tony turns. "Panther. Where did you--?" He stops. This isn't the time. "You heard all of that, I assume."

"Yes," T'Challa says. "However, there may be a way to rid your country of this weapon."

Tony's not noble. He's not above begging. He'll do whatever it takes to save lives. "We got your files. But we could use an open line of communication with Wakanda's scientists." T'Challa says nothing. Fine, Tony thinks, okay. That's how this is. He sighs. "Or is that asking too much--"

That's when one of the windows breaks, and a gas grenade sails in, thick green smoke trailing behind it.

Looks like someone's not in favor of scientific progress. This isn't good.

A few people start to cough, trying to cover their faces with their sleeves. It's not going to help.

They're coming for him. Maybe T'Challa too, but definitely him. Everyone else is just going to be collateral damage. And if these are the guys who made the flesh-eating bacteria, Tony has a pretty good idea of what they consider to be acceptable casualty rates.

"Dammit!" Tony yells. "Get these people out of here. Get--"

That's when the windows shatter entirely, and Tony has about a half second to process the multiple taser leads embedding themselves into him and T'Challa, and goddammit, he should have stayed suited up--

Electricity screams through his nerves, and Tony thinks that maybe his artificial heart actually does stop for a second as he collapses. T'Challa hits the floor next to him. The air down here smells strange; everything is tinged green.

Tony breathes. The world wobbles around him and he's sure he's breathing in the gas.

The men on the other end of the tasers are wearing gas masks. And they're in uniform. Military.

Tony struggles to hold on to consciousness, but he only catches the words _by the order of the Secretary of Defense_ and _treason_ before everything slips away and he tumbles down into the darkness.

* * *

He awakens face-down on damp concrete and the first thing that runs through his mind is a panicked ribbon of half-conscious thought, a loop of _oh God not again not again please not again_. He takes a breath. He's going to be okay. This isn't the Secret Empire again. Well, this probably isn't the Secret Empire again, although God knows they were trying for another in to the American government. The Secret Empire at least knew to tie him up first.

Tony moves his arms and legs experimentally. Nope, he isn't even bound. And, hey, nothing broken. Good times.

There's definitely something rotten going on with the government, though, even if it's not the Secret Empire. If it's not Hydra, then it's probably Gyrich. It's usually Gyrich.

Tony sighs, cracks his neck, pushes himself up, and opens his eyes. Concrete cell, metal door. His business suit is a complete loss; it's smeared with dirt and grime and -- hopefully someone else's -- blood. He sighs again. His ribs twinge.

In the dimness at the other side of the cell, something shifts. Someone. Oh, hey, a cellmate. Black on black in the shadows. T'Challa. Unconscious, but alive. Nice of the bad guys to put them together.

Whoever their captors are, they're more incompetent than the Secret Empire.

On the other hand, they do have flesh-eating bacteria. So there's that.

The whole world knows Tony's Iron Man now. If their foes haven't even bothered to do anything beyond minimally-secure incarceration of Iron Man and Black Panther -- well, they must have some other plan in mind, some other target, and Tony really wishes he knew what.

If it's Steve they're after again, Tony's--

Well, he probably is going to punch someone.

He could really use the rest of the Avengers right about now.

* * *

T'Challa awake and in captivity is even less pleasant. 

He _growls_.

Tony tries to bring up the situation. It gets them nowhere. Why is T'Challa so goddamn prickly these days?

"Look," Tony says, poking T'Challa in the chest. "Let's settle this here and now. You have a problem with me. And I don't know if it's because I'm rich, successful, or extremely handsome." He punctuates each word with another poke. It's so easy to wall off terror with bravado. He's pretty sure T'Challa doesn't notice. Steve would have called him on it. So would Carol, or Wanda, or Jan. Clint would have started laughing and would never have let him live it down. "But I'm not going to apologize for any of that. I'm not going to apologize because I've been fortunate."

T'Challa goes for sheer arrogant disdain. He spins around and starts investigating the seam of the door, claws out.

"I'm beyond jealousy, Stark," T'Challa informs him, icily. "I am the king of Wakanda. A nation that prides itself on embracing both its culture and its technology. In many ways I am richer than even you. We don't have time to discuss your insecurities. Now let's find a way out of here."

His hands spider over the wall, seeking gaps, finding none.

And hey, here's one good thing about the goddamn Secret Empire -- this time, Tony planned for this.

"I've been held captive by terrorists before," he tells T'Challa, and he smiles so his voice doesn't shake when he says it. "And this time, friend, unlike you -- I'm prepared."

Tony pushes the homing signal button on his watch. His armor is on its way.

This is going to even the odds.

* * *

When the armor blasts into the cell and reforms itself around Tony, the first thing Tony does is query the GPS satellites: they're in Washington, DC. The Pentagon. Huh. Well, that's _also_ not good, being as Tony distinctly recalls the guys with the gas grenades mentioning the government. And of course, Rusk's name had been all over the Bloodwash files. But at least it's not South Dakota. And he doesn't see anyone in Hydra green and yellow.

He and T'Challa step outside, and they're in the middle of a maze of corridors, with a sickeningly green mist floating at about knee-height. There are bodies underneath. Tony hurriedly brings up local sensors. Unconscious, not dead. Synthetic opiates in the air, not the Bloodwash bacteria from the Red Zone. He tells T'Challa as much. (Steve's team had said that the Bloodwash mist was red, anyway.)

Luckily, Tony's armor filters out the remains of the sedative. It looks like T'Challa's mask does as well.

Time to find the man in charge. Whoever that is.

* * *

Gyrich is bleeding and pinned to a wall, which neatly knocks out Tony's first guess as to one of the parties responsible. Gyrich's not quite conscious and he only moans as T'Challa taps him with his claws.

The scene beyond him is chaos.

There's are two glass-walled rooms just past this one. In the closest, Sam is pinned to a wall just like Gyrich, suit wings spread wide as he slumps, unconscious. In the other room, a red mist is filtering in through the vents, and Tony's suit sensors inform him that's the Bloodwash strain of bacteria.

Jesus. This isn't good.

Tony can make out something in the mists, something human-sized, lying on the floor. This really isn't good. Someone's trapped in that chamber, deliberately infected.

The mists clear just enough that he can see what the motionless figure is wearing. Red, white, and blue.

Oh, no. No, no, no, no. Not Steve.

Steve shouldn't be here. He should be safe. He should be with the team. He's anything but safe.

_He said he was fine_ , Tony thinks. _Oh, God, no._

Steve is passed out on the floor. Red light glints dully off the scales on his uniform. He's already breathed the mist in. Whoever these people are, they've got Steve. He's dying. Any minute now, the bacteria will start eating away at him.

Tony thinks maybe the only reason he isn't currently having a heart attack is that his heart isn't natural anymore.

He switches to medical sensors. Sam's safe behind the other glass wall, but Steve's not breathing. Oh, God.

There's another man in the room with them, and Tony's first thought, oddly, is that it's actually Secretary Rusk -- and then light glints off the man's head. It's not the gas next door, not the lights -- that's just the color his face is.

Red Skull.

Several more things about the motivation behind the Red Zone bioterrorism suddenly crystallize in Tony's mind.

Tony pauses and rearranges a few letters in his head and, well, that explains why he never liked the bastard anyway. Dell Rusk. Red Skull. They're going to need a new Secretary of Defense.

"Panther," Tony says, tightly, because he can't think about anything but Steve, Steve and the disease that's already killing him. "Keep him busy."

T'Challa looks at him, nods, and then leaps.

Tony heads toward Steve, and in a few more seconds, he's in the room--

\--and then every circuit in his suit overloads and dies at once. It's like what Carol did to him once, on the moon, only worse. His skin's burning. He collapses, half-trapped by the weight of his own armor. There's no sound in the suit but the hissing of his own breath, and everything is dark. He hates the dark.

The Red Skull laughs. "The watch I have is very much like the one you use to control the armor, mein freund. I have triggered a firewall around your battery cells. Usually reserved for high-energy intake," he adds, almost conversationally.

Tony groans and tries to push himself up. He can see Skull moving away on the other side of the glass.

"Your suit is nearly powerless, Iron Man," Skull says. "You are powerless."

Like hell.

There's a muffled thud. Tony hopes to God that's T'Challa striking back.

Here's what Red Skull doesn't know: Tony doesn't need to be Iron Man to save people. He doesn't need to be Iron Man to save Steve.

With every remaining bit of strength in his body, Tony claws himself up and over to Steve, who doesn't move as Tony pulls him into his arms. He's frighteningly motionless. The medical sensors are dead with rest of the suit, but Steve's chest doesn't rise and his nostrils don't flare. He's still not breathing.

Steve can't die. Not here, not like this.

There's only one thing to do.

Who wouldn't pick Captain America over Iron Man, really? It's not even a question.

He has to save Steve. He knows exactly what to do.

Tony reaches up and jams the manual helmet release, and the seals click and hiss as they unlatch, exposing him to the outside environment. He's breathing in poison now. The disease is in his lungs. He's already been infected.

He's not going to last long, but he doesn't have to. He just has to last long enough to save Steve's life.

He rips the helmet off, tosses it away, and tilts Steve's head back.

This is what he can do. He can breathe for him.

Steve's mouth against his is cold, slack and lifeless, and it has to be enough, it has to be enough--

This can't be Steve's last breath.

_Live, goddammit_ , he thinks. _Breathe, Steve, come on. Wake up. I love you. Don't do this to me._

The world spins around him and everything is red and he can't breathe either, he can't breathe, but it's okay, it's got to be okay, he gave Steve all he's got--

There's nothing.

* * *

Someone is holding his hand.

He's lying on his back, and someone is holding his hand.

He opens his eyes and blinks a few times. The inside of the mansion infirmary is far too familiar from this vantage point. The hand on his squeezes tight. Tony turns his head. Steve. Steve's sitting next to him. That's Steve, holding his hand.

Steve's alive.

He did it. He saved him.

"Oh, thank God," Tony says, or tries to say, but the words come out mostly phlegm and his chest spasms into a coughing fit as he tries to arch up off the bed and ow ow ow his ribs, fuck, ow--

Steve puts his other hand on Tony's shoulder. He's smiling, but even he looks a bit under the weather. There's a bandage over his eye. From the way Tony's face feels, Tony's got a matching bandage on his forehead. He glances down at himself. He's wearing striped pajamas and one of his hands is thoroughly bandaged.

"Shh," Steve says. "It's okay. Red Skull had an antidote. I'm okay. You're okay. Sam's okay. T'Challa dragged us all out of there. Even Gyrich is fine. He was on our side, you know. Double-crossing Skull, with Sam's help, apparently. Turns out Skull had been asking Gyrich for confidential files on the Avengers, and halfway through spying on us, Gyrich developed a conscience. So Sam was giving him doctored files to pass to Skull." He grimaces. "Not that any of us knew it was Skull."

"Fff." Tony coughs again. He can't even speak. "Should have-- I should have seen it. Should have known. S-- sorry."

Steve squeezes his hand again. "No one knew, Tony. It's not your fault."

When he finally manages to draw a full breath, something in his chest is raw and sore. "But I met him. As Red Skull, and as Dell Rusk. Not a lot of people can lay claim to that dubious honor, but I'm one of them and so I should have noticed." He grimaces. "For God's sake, Steve, I went to a Department of Defense meeting last week. I had coffee and breakfast pastries with _the fucking Red Skull_ and I had no idea."

Even Steve winces at that. "So he did a good job hiding," he says, rallying himself, pressing on. "It doesn't make you responsible. And we got him in the end, anyway."

"He nearly killed you--" Tony begins, and he checks himself before he can slide down into unguarded honesty. "You were barely alive," he says, and his voice breaks in the middle of the sentence. "What if I hadn't--"

Tony's throat tightens up, and he's pretty sure it's not the remnants of the Bloodwash infection. He's not good enough. He almost wasn't fast enough to save Steve.

Steve's fingers glide over the back of Tony's hand, and his eyes go soft. "Hey, shhh," he says. "I'm okay."

"Civilian casualties? South Dakota?"

Steve's face is somber. "We saved everyone we could. Once we could synthesize the cure, almost everyone who was still alive recovered, but--"

Yeah, that's not good. Tony sinks back miserably into the bed. "And the death toll?"

"Later," Steve says, and he squeezes Tony's hand yet again. His eyes are too wide, and his mouth now is wavering. "I'm just... really glad you're back with us. T'Challa told me what you did. I saw what you did. You exposed yourself to the contagion, and you saved me." His face goes tight. "I came to, and you were passed out on top of me. Didn't take much to figure out what you'd done."

"I had to do something," Tony says, and he knows it's not much of a defense, but he also knows what happens now. This is where they fight. He needs to brace himself. "You were lying there and you _weren't breathing_ and I might not be good for much but I wasn't going to just let you die--"

"Hey, hey." Steve interrupts him, but his tone isn't laced with the usual anger. "What do you mean, not good?"

Isn't that patently obvious? "Come on." Tony sighs. "It's only me. You were dying, and I could risk death to save you. It's the world's easiest trolley problem. Captain America or Iron Man, who's more important?"

Now is when Steve yells. Now is when he leaves.

"Tony." Steve sighs and rubs his free hand over his face. He sounds pained. But somehow he still sounds gentle. "Tony, I wish you wouldn't-- Tony, you're so important. To everyone. To me."

He's not yelling.

Tony blinks, confused. This is unusual. He stares into the distance, trying to make sense of this. This isn't what happens.

Steve's brow furrows. "Something wrong? Still not feeling well?" 

"I'm waiting for the part where you yell at me," he tells him, and he wonders how many drugs he's on, that he freely parted with all these vulnerabilities. He knows Steve knows just where his weak spots are but offering them up is something else entirely.

"What?" Steve asks, a little incredulous, even though he has to know what happens now.

"You know," Tony says. "I'm waiting for the part where you tell me I was reckless and you ask me what the hell I was thinking, sacrificing my life for yours. The patented Captain America lecture."

It's the conversation they always have. Tony's hoping they can keep it relatively professional, this time. He can handle that. He's not thinking he'll do so well if Steve makes it personal.

Steve's mouth quirks. "Actually," he says, softly, and his thumb strokes over Tony's knuckles. "I was kind of hoping we could skip that part of the talk."

Now Tony's staring. "You're not mad?"

"Oh, I'm mad," Steve says. But he doesn't sound mad. He sounds-- contemplative, maybe. "I just thought that, well. It doesn't accomplish much, the yelling. And you know how I feel about this. And about you. And I thought, well, we had this thing going, the two of us. Where we try to stop and talk if something goes wrong. We try to slow down." He half-smiles. "I call yellow."

Tony is sure his mouth is open. Steve just...?

"You're safewording out of a fight?"

The noise Steve makes is sort of like a laugh. "Well, it's not actually my kink."

Tony's still staring, stunned. Score one for communication. They're going to stop and talk through this and work it out. That's what they're doing now. They're not getting in the same fight they always have. This is better. He's doing better. He's doing this.

Maybe he is good enough for this. Maybe he can do this right.

Tony sighs in relief. "At least I could save you."

Steve's mouth creases in a familiar smile. "I'm very happy that you did."

"I'd do it again, you know," he tells Steve, because Steve has to know that much. "I'd save you. I'd always save you."

"I know," Steve says. "And I disagree with your assessment of your worth. Which you know." But then he raises Tony's hand, and kisses his fingers. "Still love you to pieces, though."

"Glad to hear it," Tony says, still a little dazed. He hopes he's not dreaming this all up as he's dying on the floor of the Pentagon. This seems real, though. This is nice.

He saved Steve. He did something good. He did it all right. They've got each other.

Tony could get used to this.

* * *

The next morning, Tony shakes T'Challa's hand and signs a trade agreement with Wakanda. They took down Red Skull together. They've made up.

T'Challa is masked, but Tony's pretty sure he's smiling too.

* * *

Tony's in the mansion basement with a sheet of red leather in front of him cut into strips and a pile of golden, jingling hardware on the table. He's bent over one of the industrial sewing machines. It's a good thing Hank and Jan are on vacation, as Jan usually commandeers this particular spot, and Tony doesn't want to explain to anyone what he's doing. It's not like it can be anything other than what it looks like.

He got the smelting and casting done just after the Red Zone disaster; it had been a bit of work sourcing everything he wanted, and it was a very tricky alloy, but Tony is good with challenges. He likes them, actually. He'd designed and produced the molds, fired up the furnace, and he'd poured the molten metal himself, with his own gloved hands and a pair of tongs. It's not something he usually does himself, these days, even for the armor -- but this is for Steve, and Steve deserves it. The white-hot glow was comforting; he'd forgotten just how satisfying it was to do this all by hand.

And he'd even made a few extras, with some of the rest of the metal he had, in case Steve wants matching cuffs or a leash. They hadn't talked about that, and Tony isn't sure yet if that would be too much. It's best to start with this first.

Yesterday he'd painted all the findings gold; he'd pondered coating them in actual gold, but decided that it wouldn't be right. A different person might want an ostentatious collar -- platinum and diamond, say -- to show off, to have the collar itself be a statement. Love would be measured in dollar value, in precious metals and gems, a currency anyone can recognize. But that's not Steve, and that's not him. Certainly Tony likes the finer things in life -- but that's because he likes to have good things, and he's willing and able to pay for quality. And for Steve, he knows, it will be more than enough that Tony made it; he could have made it with twigs and leaves.

This isn't to say that this collar isn't... special. It's just not obviously, visibly so.

At any rate, the metal's done, and now there's just sewing, and that's almost all done. This is his second try with the leather, and he's pleased by how well it's going. This time the seams are perfect, he's got the D-rings sewn in, and now all he has to do is get the buckle in and fastened. Then he just has to punch a few more holes and smooth out the edges.

Steve ought to like this, Tony thinks as he hammers down the rivets, which fit perfectly. The hammer rings off the metal and bounces back harder than he was expecting, and he laughs and grips the haft tighter as the sound fills the workspace.

It's been a hell of a year, all right, but he's had Steve at his side through all of it. And Tony's an engineer. He's an inventor. He's a craftsman. He's always built for Steve before. Small things. Practical things. Uniform improvements. And now he can finally make something special for Steve, with all of his love in it, in a way that only builds on what they've always had.

Tony pushes aside the hammer and picks up the collar. It's not quite done yet -- it needs holes for the buckle -- but he smooths out the strip of leather between his hands. His fingertips glide over the soft lambskin on the inside and the slightly tougher reinforced straps on the outside, already dyed a rich red. The metal gleams golden. Together they're the exact shade of his armor.

It's perfect.

* * *

"I want you to pick," Steve tells him that night, as they're drifting off to sleep.

Tony struggles into wakefulness. "Hmm?"

Steve's words are slow, considered, but confident. Steve knows what he wants. Steve always knows. He's never ashamed. He's never afraid. Or if he is, he uses the fear to make himself better.

Sometimes it's a good thing to ask himself what Steve would do. It's not always falling off airplanes.

"For our anniversary," Steve clarifies. "I want you to pick what we do. If we eat. Where we eat. What I order." He coughs. "That, and what we do... afterwards. I don't mean involving anyone else in-- in what we have, I don't want a public scene, I just mean--"

"You want me to take charge," Tony says. He gets it. A little thrill runs through him at the thought, a ripple of feeling that has no reason to be furtive anymore, but still is. Like he's _getting away_ with this wonderful thing. "You want me to decide. For you."

Steve's sigh is a little wistful, a little dreamy. "Yeah. If-- if you want that, I mean. I want to sit there and know that secretly I'm-- I'm being... good for you. Following what you set out. All night."

Tony breathes in sharply, because, God, that really does something for him, thinking that Steve would be his all night, even before he takes him home, and no one would know except the two of them. It's like a punch that doesn't hurt, that hits deep and sets him wanting it in some way that is and isn't sexual at the same time, a warm sparking zing of power and control like a low-voltage shock. He likes that. He really likes that.

He thinks about Steve wearing his collar.

He thinks about Steve wearing his collar, under a shirt collar or uniform cowl or scarf, tucked away, subtle, hidden. Known only to them.

"Yeah," Tony says, voice gone hoarse. "Yeah, that works for me."

* * *

Tony's palms are sweating. He's been an Avenger for a decade, he's fought villains on a universe-destroying scale, he's saved the planet more times than he can count -- and he's sitting here across the table from Steve and all he can think about is the collar in its box, in their bedroom back at the mansion. Just waiting for them to get home.

Maybe he should have taken Steve up on the offer to skip dinner and stay home. Steve had told him anything he picked was fine, after all.

But it's their anniversary. A dinner out is the done thing. And besides, they're already here.

Tony picked the place, all right, but he wanted to pick something Steve would like. Something he knew Steve already liked. They've done fine dining before, but this is for Steve. Which is why Tony's sitting opposite Steve in a slightly-dingy booth at a hole-in-the-wall restaurant. Your classic American food. They've actually been here a couple times before, after missions, when everyone's crashing hard and Steve urgently needs to consume what always looks like his own weight in food. So he knows Steve likes this place, and he knows they're familiar enough faces that no one here is going to try to interrupt them, which is also a plus for the evening. None of that is why he's worried.

Tony unclenches his fists and tries not to worry at the ripped vinyl seat covering on his side of the booth. He sips his water. There. That's normal.

Steve smiles at him. He hasn't opened the menu. Tony's picking that, too. A private gesture. Anyone else would think Tony's ordering because they know each other well -- and they do. Tony'd have a good chance of picking something Steve liked anyway. But it's not just about that.

He wouldn't have thought secrecy would be a turn-on after a decade behind a mask, but, well, people are funny like that, aren't they?

"Two cheeseburgers, please," Tony says to the waitress, handing the menus back. "One each. Bacon and cheddar for Cap, Swiss cheese for me."

Steve smiles at him again when the waitress leaves, and he mouths _thank you_.

Tony's dimly aware that he fed Steve something very like this once, during that week. He'd drugged the food. But it's a distant memory, fading away, and Steve's eyes are still bright.

"I know you usually eat more," Tony tells Steve, because he wants to make it clear that he's not deliberately withholding food. (Again. He's not going to think about that either.) "There will be more later. You should probably eat a little less right now. Save room."

"Yes, sir," Steve says, smartly, like it's a joke, like they're just sharing a joke where Steve pretends to obey him because Tony has presumed to order him without any kind of authority, and that's what anyone would think, and Jesus Christ, Tony would have sworn he didn't have a military kink, but he guesses he was wrong about that. Tony just barely suppresses the shiver.

Steve's smile goes wider.

"You're _dangerous_ ," Tony murmurs. "Happy anniversary."

"Aww," Steve says, "and you're sweet."

Steve clinks their milkshake glasses together in a toast. Their fingers brush. Steve's gaze is soft. Steve loves him.

Tony still can't believe he gets this life, after everything.

* * *

The rest of the Avengers have been given instructions not to bother either of them for anything smaller than life-threatening emergencies -- which doesn't reduce the chances of there being one, but it does mean that so far their night off has been pleasant, and Tony hardly has to think about the briefcase armor at his feet.

They don't even talk about work. Not much anyway. Their lives are entangled with their work, but it can't really helped. Steve tells him how Hank and Jan called him the other day; apparently they were on their way to a vacation in Vegas.

"I could have taken you," Tony offers, and Steve makes a face, the face Tony knew he was going to make. "Yeah, all right, no," he concludes.

"Maybe next year," Steve says. His foot nudges Tony's under the table.

Tony smiles. "All healed up, huh? Legs not bothering you anymore?"

It's been a week since the Red Zone incident; Steve had been on crutches at first, which was frankly more than a little frightening for Tony, because anything that takes Steve off his feet tends to be pretty goddamn awful, and if he hadn't known Steve had been near death from the Bloodwash disease, that would have confirmed it.

(Of course, Steve had only needed the crutches for maybe half a day, because he's Steve. But that doesn't stop Tony from being concerned.)

"Yeah," Steve says. "Yeah, of course, I'm all better." He frowns. "You're not still worrying about that mission, are you? I'm fine. Everything's good."

_I saved you_ , Tony tells himself. "I saved you," he says, aloud, for good measure, like saying it will make it more true, will make him finally able to convince himself that Steve is okay.

He rubs at the cuff of his dress shirt, at the inside of his wrist, at the pressure point there, and he feels a little more relaxed even as the fabric scratches at sensitive, raw skin. Steve's all right. Steve's here.

"You did," Steve says. He smiles. "You really did."

Tony exhales. "Okay."

Steve's smile is fond. "So no more shop talk tonight, right, Shellhead?"

The old, old nickname sets something alight within Tony, that familiar spark of fondness. "Okay. No shop talk. Eat your dinner."

Steve promptly takes a bite of his burger, just like -- all right, Tony actually did tell him to do that and, oh, wow, that makes him feel good. Steve sets the burger down, and there's contentment in his eyes. He's doing what Tony told him to do and it's making him happy. It's making them both happy.

Yeah, Tony can definitely work with this.

* * *

It's a good evening. Nothing at all goes wrong. Tony kisses Steve while waiting for Jarvis to open the mansion door. He doesn't care if anyone gets a photograph of it this time.

The downside to this, their perfect evening, is that now they're at home, in their room -- the room that used to be Tony's but is now essentially theirs -- and Tony has no idea what to do.

Oh, he knows what he wants to happen; he knows what Steve likes, and he knows what he's planning for both of them, an order of events. But he doesn't know how to start, to go from here where they're not seriously playing at anything, to there where they are. Does Tony just hand him the collar? Does he put it on him? Do they talk about this first? It feels like a ceremony, or like it should be a ceremony, but it's one where Tony doesn't know any of the protocol.

Steve doesn't squirm, exactly, but when he gets unsure he starts to drop into parade rest, and as Tony looks on, Steve's head goes up, he plants his feet, and he starts to put his hands behind his back.

"No," Tony says. "Sit."

He doesn't quite command it. It had taken them a few weeks for Tony to figure out a tone of voice that was more _do what I want because you love me_ and less _heads up, Avenger, this is Iron Man_. But Steve's gaze snaps to him and he sits down instantly, in one of the chairs in the corner, by the desk. He does it like he's been hungering for an order all night and this is his big chance to prove himself. (God, has Tony been neglecting him?)

"Easy, there," Tony tells him. He drags over the other chair and sits down, close enough that their knees almost brush when he scoots forward. "Make yourself comfortable."

Steve promptly pushes back his cowl and pulls off his gloves, leaving them on the desk. Tony takes this opportunity to loosen his tie and get out of his coat.

Tony glances at the desk, at the little box there that's the only thing on the desk besides Steve's gloves, and when he looks up he sees that Steve was looking at it too. Their eyes meet, and Steve's throat works as he swallows.

Tony picks up the box. His hands are sweating again.

"I got you a present," Tony says. "Like we talked about."

Steve is looking between the box and Tony and smiling and smiling, wide-eyed. His fingers dig into his thighs, like he wants to reach for it. He doesn't say anything.

"I thought you could wear it for me tonight," Tony says. It's hard to get the words out. "If you want to." Tony's holding his breath.

Steve raises his hands. His fingers are clenching on air. "I want to," he says. "Please, I want to."

"Okay." Tony breathes out, relieved. "Good. Do you-- do you want to see it first?"

Steve nods eagerly, and when he puts the little box in Steve's hands, Steve's fingers are trembling as he lifts the lid, and sees the collar exactly as Tony made it: the band of rich red leather sized perfectly to him, the golden metal that gleams in their bedroom's muted light.

"Oh, wow," Steve breathes. "It's-- it's exactly like I pictured it. Just like I saw it in my head. This is so beautiful."

Gently, Steve lifts the collar out of the box. He rubs a thumb over the thick, supple leather, over the stitching, and Tony can see he's practically petting the soft lining between his thumb and forefinger. "This is quality work," he says, approvingly. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that you can find such craftsmanship on such short notice, but I have to say I really appreciate the results. Wow," he says again, still stroking the leather. "You'll have to let me know who made this so I can thank them somehow. This is so amazing. It's like it came right out of my dreams. The colors are perfect. Everything is perfect. How did they do it? It's like they knew exactly what I wanted."

"I-- uh," Tony says, which is not the most articulate he has ever been, but Steve complimenting him can throw him for a loop.

And then Steve looks up, and he gets it, and his mouth parts in a huge, incredulous smile. Tony thinks this is the happiest he has seen Steve in his entire life. He'll make him a collar every day if he'll smile like that, like Tony is the best thing he's ever seen.

"Oh my God," Steve says, and his voice is thick like he's about to cry. "Oh my God, Tony, you _made this_?" His eyes are wide, stunned. "You made this for me?"

"Well," Tony begins, a little awkwardly, "I didn't tan or dye the leather. I bought that. So it's only partly handmade, I suppose. Depends how you define that. I did do the sewing, though. The metal parts, the buckle and rings and all, those were, uh, yeah. I made those from scratch. Designed them and cast them myself."

"I can't believe--" Steve whispers. "I mean, I can believe it, but it's amazing. You're amazing. You're so wonderful. Wow."

He's still got the collar in his hand, caressing the leather, like he can't bear to be parted from it now that he knows Tony made it.

"I wanted to make you something special," Tony tells him. "You deserve it."

And then Steve glances down again at the collar, and Tony sees his brow furrow as he looks at the buckle, which shimmers golden. His mouth twists. "Tony," he asks, voice rising in uncertainty, "this isn't real gold, is it?"

"No," Tony assures him, which is technically the truth. "I did consider coating it in gold, but no, that's paint."

Steve exhales. "Good," he says. "Because, honestly, the fact that you made it is wonderful and you really didn't need to make it out of anything ridiculously expensive just to impress--"

As he's talking, his fingers move to the metal, and Tony's stomach clenches up as Steve taps an idle fingernail against the buckle--

It rings out, clear as a bell, louder and more resonant than any ordinary metal ever would be, taking the impact of the tap and bouncing the energy of it right back. Steve shuts his mouth. Steve knows what that is. Of course Steve knows what that is. He hears that sound every day of his life.

"Tony," Steve says, and he's still smiling but his eyes are wider and wider in complete incredulity. "You _didn't_. Tell me you didn't do what I think you did."

"I can't tell you that, because I kind of did." Tony forces himself not to look away. Maybe it was too much. But he did it. It had seemed like a good idea. Romantic. "When T'Challa and I were signing those trade agreements after the Red Zone mess, I asked him if he had any vibranium to sell. I picked up a couple of ingots. If it makes you feel better, it's not pure vibranium. It's alloyed."

Steve's shoulders start to shake. He's still holding the collar, but he's starting to look more than a little overwhelmed. He drops his face into his free hand. The noise he makes is sort of a squeaking laugh. "Oh, well, then, if it's only _an alloy_ \--" He pauses, breathless, and he looks up. "You used the most expensive metal in the world to make me a collar."

"And last week you used the most expensive metal in the world to punch Red Skull in the face," Tony says, gesturing to the shield, where it sits next to Steve's side of the bed. He shrugs and looks away now, suddenly self-conscious. Maybe this hadn't been a good idea after all. "It's not because it was expensive-- I just wanted-- I just--" He swallows and tries again, barreling on, losing himself in the explanation. "The metal in the collar is vibranium and steel together. The same alloy as your shield. Not the exact same proportions, as your shield has more vibranium, obviously, but I just thought -- this way it would be a bit of me and a bit of you, you know? My colors and your shield. I thought it would be... nice." He swallows again, looking down; he can only focus on his own hands in his lap. "Because... because I can, and because I love you?"

Then Steve's hand covers his.

"Hey, shh," Steve says, and when Tony looks up, Steve is smiling, and that's good, right? He's smiling. That's got to be good.

"Steve?"

"It's all right," Steve murmurs. "Better than all right. Astounding, really. And it's-- you're right, that is perfect. Not bad at all. It was just a bit much to take in, you know? People don't give me priceless vibranium gifts." He glances over at the shield; his mouth twists. "Well, okay, just the once."

"You like it?"

"I love it," Steve says, firmly. "And you."

Okay. This is good. They can do this.

Tony licks his lips. "You want to wear it?"

Steve's nod is eager. "I really do."

The mood, jarred out of place, settles back into something warm when Steve smiles again. Steve's still holding the collar, and his free hand drifts up to his bare throat. His gaze goes far away, and Tony can tell he's thinking about it already and that really-- wow. That's good.

"You want to wear it _now_?"

"Yes, please." Steve nods again. His fingers tighten over the leather. "Will you put it on me?"

"I will," Tony says. He smiles back, and he lets the smile turn sharp. "But I want you to strip for me first." He watches Steve's eyes widen, and he decides to play it up a little more. "Tonight you'll wear this and nothing else. The only thing you are is mine. The only mark on you is mine."

"Please." Steve's voice is barely breath already. He's into this. He's definitely into this.

Tony knows Steve likes that. Belonging. Giving himself over. And Tony gets quite a kick out of it too. It's all good.

Steve sets the collar down, stands up and immediately starts removing the heavy uniform shirt he's still wearing. His fingers fumble with the fastenings. He gets his outermost shirt off, undoes his belt buckle, looks down at himself, clearly realizes he's still wearing his boots, and then sits down again to wrench them off. It's not a calculated seduction, which is fine by Tony, because that's not who Steve is. He's devastatingly handsome, but he never acts like he knows it. He never uses it.

After he successfully divests himself of boots, pants, shirt, undershirt -- everything neatly folded on his chair, socks tucked into his boots, because of course Steve does that -- Steve stares down at Tony, thumb hooked into the waistband of his briefs, expression wavering with uncertainty, like he wants just one more push.

God, he's beautiful. Some days Tony still can't believe he's really here. That Steve loves him back. That Steve wants him back.

Tony stands up, making sure to pick the collar up as he goes. "Shh," he tells him. "Don't think. Just do. It's going to be good."

He puts his hand over Steve's and eases the fabric down over his hipbone, admiring -- as always -- the long elegant sweep of his muscles. He runs a finger over Steve's belly and Steve's cock jumps a little, half-hard, interested. But that's not where they're going, and Steve knows that. 

They talked all this over beforehand. Just because Steve wanted Tony to pick doesn't mean he didn't want to know what they were going to do; he goes down much, much easier if they have a plan, if he knows what Tony is expecting of him. And that's Tony's goal for the night; they have an uninterrupted evening and he's going to put Steve down into subspace as far as he can. No actual sex is probably happening; Steve tends not to care about getting off when he's that blissed out, and Tony gets pretty goddamn high off of topping him without needing to come. But they can reevaluate as they go, if they need to.

("I don't see how this is going to be any fun for you," Steve had said, and Tony had just smiled and told him not to worry. Tony's definitely having a good time right now.)

"You've already been good," he tells Steve. "We went out, and you did what I wanted. Did you like that?"

Steve nods eagerly. He's already going a little non-verbal. Tony can work with that. It's not like he doesn't have years of practice figuring out what Steve is thinking.

Steve steps out of the last of his clothing and Tony takes his hand and leads him over to the bed. They stop, and Tony leans in and kisses him. Steve's lips part under his, yielding, warm and plush, and he's content to let Tony kiss him, to let him do what he wants. Tony can't turn down kissing him... ever, really. Steve moans against his mouth.

Tony needs to not get carried away. He has an agenda here, and it's not going to be helped by getting them both keyed up. So he steps back. Steve's gaze is already a little fuzzily bereft, like he can't quite figure out why Tony's gone.

"Shh," Tony murmurs. "You're good. We're going to do something really nice now." He puts a hand on Steve's shoulder. His scarred, calloused fingers spread wide over Steve's perfect, unmarred skin. And he pushes, ever so gently, exerting downward pressure. "Kneel."

And Steve just... goes. He sinks to the floor, easy, unresisting, like water flowing down, like this was how he was always supposed to be. He gets his legs under him and sits back on his feet, pointing his toes. His arms are behind his back, fingers grasping each other loosely, and he bows his head. Tony thinks someone must have trained him to do this, but he's never asked. A pang of wistfulness runs through him; he imagines gently correcting Steve, posing him just so, running his hands over Steve's body. Someone else must have done that. Tony wishes it could have been him. Still, Tony's glad Steve knows these things, because Tony didn't when they started. He's glad Steve has been loved. He can't resent that.

Steve is beyond handsome, beyond beautiful, into downright _stunning_. The muted lamp by the bed casts him in half-shadow; pale, slightly-freckled skin blends into the light and darkness of the room, dappling him here and there, making the long lines of his body stand out. Tony's mouth goes dry.

Steve is still, silent, at peace in a way their lives never let them be. Tony's goal for the evening is just to bring him down deeper into this all-too-rare tranquility.

"Good." Tony puts two fingers on Steve's chin and tips his head upwards. "Now open your eyes for me."

Steve blinks up at him. The pale, watery blue of his eyes is becoming harder to see; his eyes are rapidly darkening with desire, blue just barely around the edges.

"Excellent," Tony says, and Steve smiles at him, wide and pleased. "There we go. I want you to watch me. Going to put your collar on you. Don't want you to miss it."

Steve smiles again, and Tony picks up the collar and bends down, perching on the edge of the bed. The collar feels heavy in his hands, heavier than it should be, as if it portends more than it is. He wraps the collar around Steve's neck -- Steve shivers a little, goosebumps across his shoulders -- and fastens it, the prong of the buckle missing the notch in the leather on the first try before Tony finally manages to slide it in and close it properly.

"There," Tony says. He realizes his palms are sweating again, and the world is simultaneously too fast and too slow. He feels like maybe he should have gone down on one knee for this. "All done."

"All yours?" Steve says, in a very small, hopeful voice that sounds absolutely nothing like Captain America.

"All mine," Tony says.

Steve sighs, a happy sound. His hands work free and one of them drifts up to his shoulder before stopping. "Can I--?"

"Of course you can touch it," he says, and Steve's hands go instantly to the collar, working slowly along the length of it, fingertip by fingertip, flipping one of the D-rings back and forth. As Tony watches, Steve's erection grows visibly harder where it lies against his thigh and, well, that's gratifying, at least.

Steve swallows hard; the motion makes the collar bob, just the tiniest bit. "Can I see it?"

Oh. Oh right. "Sure thing," Tony says. "Come on up."

Tony stands, and Steve wobbles as he joins him. Tony really wishes he could take a picture, but it's probably not especially a great idea to have pictures of Captain America naked and hard and wearing only a collar. So he hooks a finger into the D-ring at the front and tugs Steve toward the mirror.

"I like that," Steve tells him, dreamily, satisfied. "When you." He stops; communication is a little tricky right now.

"When I take charge? Lead you around?" he asks, and Steve nods. "I have enough metal and leather left for at least a leash," he offers. "Maybe cuffs. Wasn't sure if you wanted--"

"Yes," Steve says, so firmly that it startles Tony into a laugh. "Both."

"Okay, then. Can do."

He stops when they're both in front of the full-length mirror on the far side of the room. They make quite a pair. Tony's still wearing the suit he wore to dinner, minus the jacket, though his tie is loose, his hair is mussed, and his lips are red like someone's been kissing them. Steve... looks like he's on another planet entirely. He's unselfconsciously nude, hard and getting harder, body turned toward Tony, limbs easy and languid. Everything about his body language, the way he's holding himself, says he's Tony's, says that Tony is the only thing he's paying attention to. Steve's dark eyes eventually drift to the mirror, and he brings his hand up to the collar, watching himself touch the collar like that's the only thing that will confirm it's real. It gleams crimson and golden under his fingertips.

"Oh, Tony," Steve breathes. "It's perfect. Look, right there, I'm yours."

Tony just smiles and turns his head and kisses Steve on the temple.

He lets Steve stay there for a bit. They're in no hurry. When Steve is done examining the collar from every angle, Tony rests his hand gently on the nape of Steve's neck, teasing at the edge of the collar with a fingertip, and Steve shudders and bows his head.

"I want you to do something for me now," he tells Steve.

"Yes," Steve says. The word sounds a little slurred, lazy with pleasure. His eyes are shut.

Tony has found that Steve likes taking direction best when it's very, very methodical, with everything spelled out. "Turn around. Walk back to the bed. Get your pillow. Put it on the floor next to the bed. Face the bed, and then kneel down again on the pillow. Do you understand?"

When Steve opens his eyes, his stare is almost grave, as if they're in battle and he's acknowledging life-or-death orders. "Yes, Tony."

Watching Steve walk -- well, that's its own pleasure, isn't it? Steve heads back across the room in a slow, easy stride, and Tony turns around and admires Steve's ass, because _really_. Anyone would understand.

Steve picks up the pillow, drops it on the floor, and kneels again, the same way he'd been kneeling before -- toes pointed, hands back, head down and waiting. He shifts a little on the pillow before settling again.

"You're allowed to move," Tony tells him. There's a mini-fridge in the corner where Steve likes to keep water for after his morning run, and Tony heads over to get the bowl he prepared beforehand. "This isn't supposed to hurt. If you need to shift position, if you've knelt too long, you can move. You don't need permission."

Steve nods in acknowledgment. They've played a few times with Steve keeping perfectly still, and he can -- the serum definitely increases his endurance in poses that normal people would be complaining about after only a few minutes -- but it's not something that either of them get much out of, Steve holding still. Plus, Tony's planning to keep Steve on his knees for a bit here; he wants Steve to be comfortable.

Bowl in hand, Tony heads back to the bed, and he sits down just opposite where Steve's kneeling.

"Look at me," he says again, and Steve looks up and blinks a few times, focusing on the bowl. Tony tilts it so Steve can see. "I brought you dessert. Mixed berries. Strawberries, blackberries, blueberries, raspberries."

He rattles off the words as if the names are just names, as if they mean nothing to either of them. Raspberries had been Steve's favorite, until last year Tony had tied Steve to a wall and fed him them for days while doing his best to break him. He hadn't seen Steve eat them again until a few months ago. They'd gradually tried Tony feeding Steve as part of scenes -- they'd taken it slowly, and Steve had liked it well enough -- but they'd never tried berries again. This is a first. The first time they're both consenting to this.

Steve had okayed it beforehand -- otherwise they wouldn't be trying this at all -- and Tony pauses, waiting to see if he's going to ask to slow down, or to safeword out entirely. His eyes are a little wider, focused on the bowl, and his breathing catches, but he says nothing. He just licks his lips. That's a yes.

Tony wants this to be good for Steve. He doesn't want to stir up unpleasant memories. And they don't do punishment. Neither of them like it, and besides, they work together -- and if anyone fucks up in the field, the Avengers have procedures for dealing with it. They don't bring anything into the bedroom that's about discipline. Steve really likes praise, and Tony really likes praising him. So Tony wants Steve to like this. He wants this to be a reward, the way it would have been if he hadn't had his own desires turned against him. They can't take the past away, but they can keep moving forward.

He carefully picks up one of the raspberries. "I love you," he murmurs, "and I want you to have your favorite things. Here. Eat."

Steve's mouth is half-open already, and his eyes fall shut as Tony puts the berry on his tongue. Steve's lips close ever so briefly around Tony's fingers, and he licks at the pad of Tony's thumb. His tongue is warm and wet. Tony can feel his cock twitch and start to take more of an interest in the other things Steve's mouth could be doing, even though he's sure Steve isn't doing this on purpose to tease him.

"Swallow," Tony reminds him, and he pulls his thumb out of Steve's mouth even as Steve's lips try to purse around his thumb again.

The collar moves as Steve's throat works, and he opens his eyes. He's smiling faintly, and when Tony sets the bowl down on the bed he leans his head against Tony's empty hand, turning his face into Tony's palm, kissing his wrist. Tony smiles back and slides his hand up to Steve's hair. Steve keeps his hair a little too short to make this really satisfying; it prickles against Tony's fingers, but Steve doesn't seem to mind, and anyway, it just means that scalp massages are very, very easy. Tony lets his hand curve around Steve's head and rubs little circles with his fingers until Steve hums happily, at which point Tony remembers he still has a bowl of fruit and offers Steve a little slice of strawberry.

Steve takes this just as delicately as he had the raspberry, again swiping his tongue over Tony's fingers to lick up every last trace of juice.

"Mmm," Steve says. His voice is low, smoky, dreamy. "Thank you so much. That's nice."

"Good," Tony tells him. "You're so good."

It was never like this with the Secret Empire. Steve had hated every moment and Tony had tried to force surrender from him, tried to take what Steve was giving him willingly. When he'd pictured Steve's submission, he'd pictured him battered and beaten and broken, not like this. He couldn't have imagined this.

Steve sighs happily and takes another raspberry from Tony's fingers. He's not freaking out at all. With every passing minute he's more and more relaxed, every little bit of tension and control easing away from him until he's just... Steve. He's radiant, like this. He's Tony's.

Tony feeds Steve a blueberry and lets his other hand slide from Steve's head to the back of his neck, running a fingertip under the beveled edge of the collar and tracing the curve of it down to Steve's vulnerable throat, feeling Steve's throat work under him as he swallows, feeling the smooth leather of the collar against his palm.

And at that, well -- Steve _moans_ , a sound that is completely, gloriously, almost orgasmically indecent. He shudders and shivers again, and Tony aches in response as he watches all the fine hair across Steve's shoulders and arms stand on end. And then Steve sighs, his eyes falling shut once again.

"Oh," Steve breathes. "I can _feel_ that."

Yeah, of course; Tony figured out pretty early on that Steve really, really liked having his neck touched. It's the centerpiece of one of his favorite kinks. But they're not choking Steve tonight. The collar ought to be enough. It seems to be making him pretty happy.

So he keeps his hand on Steve's neck, just letting him know he's there, not pressing down, as he feeds Steve piece after piece of fruit and Steve melts under his hands. Tony had never envisioned this, in all his years of uninformed fantasies; he hadn't thought that you could take someone apart with pleasure just as thoroughly as with pain. He hadn't pictured holding anyone's life in his hands quite like this. This is what he wanted and never let himself have, never knew he could have.

"You're perfect," Tony tells him, and if his voice is a little raspy, if his own throat is a little tight from the wonder of it all, well, Steve would never say an unkind word against him. "God, Steve, you're wonderful. You're being so good for me. The best."

Steve just beams up at him, his smile bright and uncomplicated. While ordinarily he might prevaricate a little, maybe get a little shy -- now he's far down enough that he's just happy about everything, and everything's going to keep making him happier, in a beautiful little feedback loop. Tony likes him, and Steve likes that, and Steve's not hiding anything.

He feeds Steve one more piece, two, three, four. He stops counting. It could take all the time in the world. It could take no time at all. Eventually he glances over and realizes he's scraping the bottom of the bowl; the tiny blueberry in his hand is the only thing left.

"Last one," he says, and Steve lingers on this one, sucking Tony's fingers into his mouth with an intensity that's undeniably erotic. When Steve finally lets go and swallows Tony realizes that he's forgotten to breathe, and he makes himself take a breath only with effort.

Everything about Steve is easy now, slow and languorous, and the smile that spreads across his face is no exception. It's like watching the sun rise. He shapes a few words with his mouth, like he's testing them but isn't sure what to say, like speaking is too much effort.

Tony sets the empty bowl on the floor and pats the bed next to him. "Hey, come up here."

Because Steve said he liked it, he gives another tug on the D-ring and Steve follows, eager, dark-eyed. Steve topples over on the bed like he doesn't quite remember how to sit up. Tony kisses him lightly and he just smiles, and Tony rewards him by sliding over and resting his weight on top of him, holding him down with his own body weight the way Steve likes. Steve's cock is still hard, sliding against Tony's thigh, dampening Tony's slacks, and Tony doesn't give a fuck. Steve can ruin every outfit Tony owns. It's no kind of combat hold, not at all a solid pin, but it doesn't need to be; Steve's not trying to get free. Steve's just lying there, letting Tony press him down, letting Tony cover him. Steve's limbs are longer, Tony stretches his arms out and can just about interlace his fingers with Steve's, pressing their hands together wrist-to-wrist, pinning Steve to the bed.

They'd talked about other things they could try when they were done with the food; it was up to Tony to judge if Steve was ready for more. And Steve's practically floating. It seems a shame to waste this. And it seems like the perfect opportunity to take back another one of the few things they haven't tried again. 

Tony lifts his head from where it rests on Steve's shoulder and turns so he can whisper into Steve's ear. "I want to hurt you."

It's gotten easier to say but it still feels like he's leaping into the darkness and waiting for the suit to kick in as he drops into freefall. Every time. There's that awful lurch of _but what if_ \--

Steve shivers again and rocks up into Tony with a roll of his hips; oh, he likes that idea a lot. Okay, good.

"Please," Steve breathes.

Tony's artificial heart is pounding. "With knives," Tony says. "Like we said. I want to play with knives."

"Yes," Steve whispers. "Yes, please. Mark me. Hurt me. Mark me all over. So I'm yours."

Even begging, even nearly incoherent, Steve still has a way with words, and Tony is very strongly tempted to just lie here and get them both off on the strength of thinking about that particular image. But it'll be even more fun to do than contemplate, so he moves off Steve and stands up to retrieve the knife he left on the dresser. He takes his tie off, rolls his sleeves up to his elbows, and picks up the knife, testing the weight of the folded blade in his hand.

He remembers doing this to Steve before, when Steve hadn't wanted it. He'd had a huge combat knife then, and he'd picked it half for utilitarian convenience and half for the possibility that it would terrify Steve. He hadn't exactly been thinking straight at the time. That's definitely not his goal now.

The knife he has now is a little more personal. When he was a lonely teenager channeling all his sadistic fantasies into weapons competence, when he'd taught himself how to wield a single-tail, he decided he also wanted to learn something about knives. So naturally he'd gotten a butterfly knife and spent hours teaching himself intricate tricks, watching the blade gleam, not even daring to imagine what he might do with it.

It's been a few years, but muscle memory is good for something. He turns back to Steve, flips the blade open one-handed, and spins the knife around his fingers a few times before letting both halves of the grip settle in his hand. Steve watches, silent, wide-eyed, but with the tiniest smile edging its way across his mouth.

"How about this?" Tony asks. He already disinfected the blade -- not that Steve can catch anything from it anyway -- and Steve got a good look at it beforehand and agreed that it would work, but there's something to be said for the theatrics of it all.

Steve smiles a little wider, turning his head to get a better view, sinking bonelessly into the mattress. "Yes, sir," he says, and heat settles low in Tony's belly, arousal curling all through him, and later when they talk about this Tony is definitely going to mention how this is his surprise new favorite thing for Steve to call him in bed. But he thinks Steve must have figured that out already.

"All right," Tony tells him. He flips the blade around a few more times, folds it up again, then walks back toward the bed. "Be good and hold still for me, and I'll mark you up."

It would probably have been easier if Steve had turned over; his back's an easier surface to use, and it's probably less dangerous if Tony's hand slips and something goes really, really wrong -- but Steve had insisted. _I want to watch you_ , he had said. _I want to see your face_.

So Tony props a pillow under Steve's head, so Steve will have a good angle to see Tony and all of his scratchings. He climbs up on the bed next to Steve and, after a moment's thought, straddles his thighs. It's not ideal if he wants to work higher up Steve's body, but he's pretty sure Steve's abs will keep him occupied. Steve's cock is starting to soften from the lack of attention, but, hey, the view from here is still fabulous. Tony leans forward and down and presses a kiss to the middle of Steve's sternum, because he can, and Steve sighs happily. Steve looks -- and feels -- about as relaxed as any human can possibly be.

Okay. Showtime.

He sits back and flips the butterfly knife open again. The blade glints in the light and Steve's eyes, pleasure-dazed, track the motion of it a little sluggishly as Tony holds the knife firmly, left-handed, bracing himself on the bed with his other hand. Steve's trembling a little with something that's probably excitement because Tony's pretty sure he doesn't remember how to feel fear.

" _Still_ ," Tony repeats, and now he lets his voice snap with the timbre of command that he ordinarily reserves for the battlefield. This is serious.

Steve licks his lips once, gaze shifting between Tony's face and the blade of the knife, and one of his hands curls into a thumbs-up sign. The trembling subsides. 

_All systems go_ , Tony thinks, and he slowly, slowly brings the blade down until the very tip of it rests against Steve's skin, the point not quite pricking one of Steve's impressive abdominal muscles.

Steve inhales sharply, and when Tony meets Steve's eyes his face is bright with pleasure. This is what he wanted when he'd done this before, Tony finds himself thinking, half-deliriously. He'd wanted this, and he'd drugged Steve and tied him down and he still hadn't gotten it, but now Steve wants this, and it's perfect.

"Good," Tony murmurs.

He lets his gaze wander back down Steve's torso. It's going to be another technical drawing; his artistic skills extend further past blueprints than most people would guess -- he does design his own armor, after all -- but it's easier to scratch simple little angles and curves and straight lines. Besides, he owes it to Steve to pick another design. A better design. To take this back, for them.

The goal isn't to draw blood. The design's not going to stay long, then. But it's okay. They'll know. That's what's important.

He keeps the pressure light, to get a feel for the blade. He practiced on himself a little, this morning, just so he'd have an idea how much force he needed. It takes a delicate touch, but, luckily, Tony's always had good hands. So as lightly as he can, he makes the first line, a fine horizontal motion, and watches as Steve's skin welts up, a beautiful, angry red as blood rises quickly to the surface, the serum trying to wipe it all away as fast as it can.

And Steve _whimpers_ , a high breathy keen. He's holding perfectly still, not even breathing, but when Tony glances down Steve's cock is diamond-hard, throbbing, slick with pre-come. He looks like he'd go off if Tony so much as brushed against him. Super-soldier bonus, Tony supposes.

Well, that's... pleasantly different from last time, Tony thinks, and also goddamn great for his ego. Christ, that's flattering. Steve likes it that much.

"Wow," Tony says. "Someone's enjoying this."

Somehow Steve manages to blush, like there's blood somewhere in his body that isn't currently spoken for. "Feels nice," Steve slurs, with a lazy smile. "You like it too."

Distantly Tony realizes that he's actually pretty turned on, and, yep, these pants aren't hiding anything. But it seems unimportant next to the sheer rush of getting to do this. He gets to hurt Steve. Steve wants him to hurt him.

"I like it," Tony agrees, and he bends down to do the next line.

Even with the serum, Steve's skin is holding the scratches better than Tony thought it would. He draws long parallel lines in threes on Steve's side, a circuit diagram over Steve's hipbone, and then the equation over Steve's ribs, like a particularly stylized tattoo. It's hard to write Greek letters sideways. Steve tilts his head down for a few of the strokes, watching the design take shape, but for the most part he keeps his eyes fixed on Tony.

He looks so _happy_. They never have the time to indulge themselves like this; Tony never gets to bring Steve down into subspace and watch him linger, euphoric, here in this world where pain is good, where everything is good. But they're here now, and Tony's going to treasure it. Steve's face is still flushed, mouth reddened, eyes almost black. His lips are parted, and when he breathes -- in rhythm with when Tony lifts the knife -- it's in long, blissful sighs. He's still moaning, the noise somewhere between pain and ecstasy.

They are definitely doing this again.

Steve's hands are outstretched, buried in the sheets, and he tips his head back and lies still, finally shutting his eyes. He's so beautiful like this, all marked up in intricate designs, red against his pale skin. Tony did this to him, and he's perfect.

Tony's sorry the design he'd planned isn't bigger. He leans forward and scratches the last of it, three concentric curves, a couple inches apart, beginning just under Steve's collarbone, arcing over his chest and finishing somewhere on his ribs at the level of where his elbow would be. The marks raise up, dark red, a counterpoint to the crimson of the collar, which still gleams golden at Steve's throat. Tony's colors. Red all over. Tony's designs. His in every way, his because Steve trusts him, because Steve loves him.

"All done," Tony says.

The sound the knife makes when it shuts is loud, and Steve's eyes snap open. He peers down at himself with interest. "Mmm. What'd you do to me?"

It could be a question about the design. It could be a comment on his general mental state. Either way Tony's pretty happy.

"You mean, what is it?"

Steve's head moves in something that's probably supposed to be a nod, but more like that's all he can manage.

It seemed like a good idea when he thought of it, but now he actually has to explain it, and, well, that part's embarrassingly sentimental. He moves over until he's lying next to Steve and brushes his fingertips lightly over the last part of the design, on Steve's collarbone. "It's less... literal than the, uh. Last time. Abstract, maybe." He waits. Steve says nothing; he just smiles. Tony swallows. "You remember when I made you that magnetic transistorized shield recall?"

"That old thing?" Steve says, but he's grinning. "Sure, of course. First thing you ever really made me, wasn't it?"

Tony's heart lightens. Steve gets it. Of course he gets it.

"So, uh, yeah," Tony says. "This is that." He runs his fingers over Steve's side. "It was tuned to vibranium specifically. This bit here is one of the damping equations for vibranium." He brushes one of the symbols on Steve's ribs.

Steve looks down, enthralled. He raises his hand to cover Tony's, and then his fingers move over the buckle of his collar, like he's comparing it to real vibranium by the feel of it. And then his hand settles to his collarbone, where the last of the design was. "And this... is my shield?"

Tony's face heats up; luckily, his complexion's too dark for it to be easily visible, unlike poor Steve. "A representation of it, yes. Slightly more, uh, artistic."

"And the rest of it is the actual recall circuitry," Steve correctly concludes. "I-- it's so wonderful, Tony. You always know exactly what's right."

"I thought," Tony murmurs, and he'll get the words out if it's the last thing he does, "I thought it would be nice. To me it meant that I-- that I would always bring you back to me. If you wanted. I'd save your life. Like-- like last week, with the Red Zone. Always."

He lifts his hand and turns his arm over, revealing the inside of his forearm where he'd been practicing on himself with the knife. There are two scratched-out bands -- since he's slower to heal, they're plainly visible -- at his wrist and then at the middle of his arm.

"And that's the shield recall," Steve breathes. "That's you. I come back to you." He's coming up a little; he still sounds not quite like his usual self, but there's more clarity in his speech. "God, Tony, I love you."

He catches Tony's hand and presses a kiss to Tony's wrist, where the welt is, and Tony shivers.

"Happy anniversary," Tony tells him. He knows he said it earlier. It's been a good night.

Steve's smile is goofy. "Same to you." His fingers work at the buttons of Tony's shirt a little clumsily. "Come here, Tony. Get comfortable." Even like this, he's still trying to take care of him.

"Sure thing." This is the cuddling part. He always likes this.

Tony peels off his shirt and then wriggles out of everything else, leaving his extremely expensive suit in a pile on the floor so he can cuddle up to Steve, skin to skin. Steve's gorgeous. Tony glances down at himself, at his own chest. He may have made Steve into an even more interesting work of art, but no one's ever going to call Tony pretty again. Not once they see him with his shirt off.

"Hey, beautiful," Steve says. His eyes are bright.

No one except Steve, apparently. Tony's throat is tight. He still can't figure out what he did to deserve this man.

Steve taps the port on Tony's chest. "You're all charged up for the night, yeah?" Tony can't resist a little chuckle. Steve still wants to lead. Steve wants to make sure everyone's okay. It's what he does. It's not so much his dominant personality floating to the surface -- because things are never that easy -- but it's just... Steve. There's no need to explain it. 

"Yeah," Tony says. "I took care of it before dinner. I can stay in bed all night."

"Good," Steve says, firmly, and pulls him close. "Because that's what I want."

This is when Steve's cock bumps against Tony's thigh, and Tony realizes that Steve's erection hasn't actually abated all that much. They could definitely do something about that, but Steve doesn't seem like he's in a hurry.

Tony coughs. "Do you want to come?"

Steve is silent for a few seconds, like he actually has to give it some thought. "Maybe in an hour or two. Not right now. I'm enjoying this."

"Well," Tony says, "as long as you're happy." He ruffles Steve's hair again. "I see you've already got me penciled in for the rest of the night, though."

"Our first night off in God knows how long?" Steve asks, with a chuckle. "You've got my whole dance card. Your name's on every line of it."

"Pretty sure those predate you, old man," Tony informs him, and Steve just grins. "I've got you figured out. You can fool everyone else, but I know you."

"You know me," Steve agrees. "I want to stay here with you, wear my gorgeous new collar all night, maybe have some sex, maybe get some sleep. Simple."

Tony hooks a finger into one of the D-rings, pulls Steve close, and kisses him. "Sounds like a plan," he says, against Steve's lips.

Ever the futurist, Tony can see the shape of their lives. In the morning Steve's marks will have faded, and they'll take the collar off and put it in a drawer, ready for their next free evening. They'll head downstairs, get coffee, eat breakfast with the rest of the team, and -- their lives being what they are -- they'll probably have to save the world again by dinner. But whatever they do, they'll do it as Avengers, as partners, as a couple. Together. And the collar will be here, waiting, in this space and time that's only theirs. It's their secret, their wonderful secret, better in the keeping than any other secret he's had.

And maybe next week, Tony will start on cuffs and a leash to match.

**Author's Note:**

> Disassembled doesn't happen. Civil War doesn't happen. They all live happily ever after.
> 
> This story has a post you can like/reblog [on Tumblr](http://sineala.tumblr.com/post/147479851029/fic-and-i-am-whole).
> 
> Fanart! Kamaete drew [Tony giving Steve his collar](http://thegoldenavenger.tumblr.com/post/147518938085/tony-giving-steve-his-collar-from-sinealas-and-i). Hooray!


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